


A Curious Thing

by Aziethe



Series: Love in the Age of Dragons [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Psychic Violence, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:52:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 45,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziethe/pseuds/Aziethe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of the bittersweet romance arc between Morrigan and the female elf mage Warden, and the consequences of betraying a lover's trust. Morrigan/f!Surana, femslash, rated for mature themes and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For everyone who only found out half-way through the game that Morrigan wasn't romanceable on a female character, despite her apparent disdain for men. Main pairing: Morrigan/f!Surana.
> 
> With much love to my wife, for her patience, understanding and feedback. Also with many thanks to ilumiari for betaing the first version of this chapter :-)
> 
> Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to BioWare.
> 
> Story Warnings: Major spoilers to the end of Dragon Age: Origins. Rated for mature themes, sexual scenes, angst, horror and violence, rape references in chapters 10 to 14. A fairly dark take on DA:O and Morrigan's characterisation.

_It could have been worse._ The thought repeated itself, like a mantra at the back of Morrigan's mind. It could have been worse. She could have been trudging through the darkness of the Deep Roads, nothing but stone and horrid fleshy growths overhead, or suffering through another meaningless bout of do-gooding, wasting her talents helping every single orphan and demon-possessed child in Ferelden.

It could have been worse, but then again, it could have been better. Traipsing around a forest looking for spiders was certainly not amongst the list of her favourite activities.

It was her own fault. She should have given the warden an emphatic 'no'. Teach shapeshifting to a Circle-raised ingenue? What had she been thinking?

"This is a foolish idea, Sylvanna," Morrigan said, for what felt like the twentieth time.

"You agreed to it."

Morrigan scowled. Ahead of her, the warden fumbled along, twigs snapping audibly beneath her weight, her dog bounding beside her and snapping at each passing insect and falling leaf. Morrigan had heard many stories of the Dalish and their superior woodcraft; Sylvanna clearly had not a drop of Dalish blood within her, from the way she tramped around. Quite possibly the entire forest knew of their presence; Morrigan could hear birds quieting at their approach, animals disappearing underground at the intrusion. At this rate, they would never find what they were seeking.

"Did you have to bring that slobbering mutt along?" Morrigan asked, looking at said mutt with barely concealed distaste.

"He might be useful," Sylvanna said. "And I think you just hurt his feelings. Again." The warden knelt down, fawning over the animal with an inordinate degree of affection. At least the dog was incapable of prattling on and on about nothing of consequence, unlike some of their other companions. The warden had sent away the templar, the bard and the old healer, chasing rumours of a long-forgotten religious relic. Surely they would fail. Morrigan only hoped that the fool of a templar would stay alive long enough to return to them. She had plans for him, and they would be all for naught, were he dead.

The dog cocked his head to one side, issuing an excited bark.

"Did you find something, Thetus?" the warden asked. No sooner had the words escaped her lips and the dog was off, bouncing excitedly into the distance like a four-week-old pup. Morrigan rolled her eyes.

Thetus reached the crest of a hill and barked impatiently, tongue lolling.

"We're coming," Sylvanna called, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Morrigan was still following.

Morrigan huffed. "More the fool we."

On top of the hill, Thetus waited amidst a pile of ruins. Broken columns littered the ground, drawing the eye to a half-collapsed archway guarding a flight of stone steps. The cavern entrance seemed mostly intact, although overgrown with vines and weeds.

"Good boy," Sylvanna said, passing the dog a treat.

Morrigan eyed the dog, who was smugly licking his lips. The warden bribed her in much the same manner, with Morrigan's jewellery collection growing substantially in the past few months. It was so utterly transparent, so blatantly disingenuous as to be laughable. Still, there was no point in seeming ungrateful; gold and jewels could always be traded for practical goods. Morrigan fingered the pendant at her neck, her scowl deepening.

"Are you sure of this?" she asked. "'Tis most unusual, for a mage of the Circle to be practising such magic, is it not?"

"I'm a grey warden now, Morrigan. If this will help us against the darkspawn, then I need to try."

Morrigan suppressed a laugh. Another army was what they needed, but if Sylvanna had to fool herself into thinking that this was for the greater good, and not her own selfish curiosity, then Morrigan would not dissuade her. "Let us do it then, and quickly. I have no desire to be here when night falls."

"Agreed."

The cavern was damp and smelled of mould and dank earth. Sylvanna hesitated a moment and then spoke, a blue wisp of light illuminating the remains of the corridor. There were carvings on the wall, but their meanings had been long worn down by dirt and rain into obscurity. They walked in silence, the three of them; mabari hound, witch and warden, down into the cool darkness of the earth.

.

.

.

It seemed as if they had been walking for hours, one dark corridor merging into the next. Sylvanna sighed, rubbing a hand across her eyes.

"I think we've been going around in circles–"

"Hush," Morrigan said. They stopped, listening to the distant sound of dripping water. A low growl rumbled from Thetus' throat, and Sylvanna's fingers brushed his neck for reassurance. A moment later, she heard what the others had already noticed - a soft hissing, echoing throughout the cavernous hallways.

They spread out, Thetus padding towards the sound. Sylvanna passed her hand over her staff, its glow dimming. Her vision adjusted slowly as they inched forward, her eyes focused on the ground just beyond her dog's silhouette. She sensed Morrigan's presence behind her, an aura of magic tangible even in the low light.

Thetus stopped in his tracks and sniffed the air. The hissing stopped, leaving them only with the sound of their breathing. Sylvanna felt a sense of foreboding, her eyes turning to the ceiling.

She was rewarded by the first glimpse of the spider, its hairy legs dangling in mid-air, followed by its bulbous head and mottled body. She shouted a warning to Thetus, too late as a sticky mass of webs engulfed the mabari. Morrigan was already moving, flames flaring from her hands. The spider reared in anger, the stench of burning flesh filling the air. A blue streak of energy shot from Sylvanna's staff, scorching the ground between the spider and her dog, his whine sounding faintly from beneath the masses of stringy silk.

The spider turned to consider the two mages. Sylvanna frantically scratched a sigil into the ground with the point of her staff, trusting Morrigan to watch her back. Of course she could trust Morrigan. Couldn't she?

The spider clicked its mandibles together before spitting out a virulent stream of poison. Sylvanna shrieked, rolling to the side to avoid the blast. She glanced up to see the spider scuttling forwards; Maker, that thing could move, all eight legs in concert. The sight was enough to give any seasoned warrior pause. _Dear Andraste, please let it hold_.

The patter of feet stopped abruptly, as if the spider had hit an invisible wall. Hovering in mid-air, the creature dangled like a child's toy. Bright lines of magic flared in a circle beneath it, marking the boundaries of the glyph. Sylvanna breathed a sigh of relief.

Morrigan stepped forward, sheathing her staff. "I was under the impression we were here to study, not to be eaten."

Sylvanna climbed to her feet, picking at her robe to determine the extent of the venomous spray. Most of it had soaked harmlessly into the dirt beside her, but she could feel a trickle burning her hand. She placed her other hand over the wound, the soft glow of healing energies purging the toxin.

"I don't intend to be on anyone's menu," she said, before casting a look towards Thetus. "My brave boy! Did you get bitten?" she asked, using a dagger to tear away at the silken web of the cocoon. He whined softly and licked her face, nudging her cheek with a nose still sticky from the web. She wiped at the residue, the web clinging unpleasantly to her hands.

"You will not hold her for long," Morrigan cautioned, watching the spider. "'Tis not safe to tarry – others are sure to follow."

"What do I need to do?" Sylvanna could feel the creature's many eyes upon her, hatred reflected in each dark orb. Her spell would hold, though. It had to.

"Hold out your hand."

As she obeyed, Morrigan drew her dagger, slicing down the outstretched palm. Sylvanna yelped, clutching at her wrist.

"You could have warned me!"

"We must act quickly." Morrigan ignored her, cutting deep into the spider's exposed abdomen. The glyph darkened, but held, the creature still unmoving except for the oozing fluid dripping from its wound.

"In Andraste's name, what are you planning to do?"

"You requested my aid," Morrigan reminded her. "You need to make a connection."

"What?"

"I said," Morrigan began slowly, as if speaking to a particularly stupid child, "you need-"

"This is blood magic, isn't it?"

Thetus whined unhappily, nudging her side.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes. "Everything has a price, Warden, and knowledge must be paid for." She sniffed. "You, of all people, should be aware of this."

Sylvanna remained silent. Shame burned in her cheeks - stupid, not to know this was how it would be all along; stupid not to expect that something so simple as asking _Morrigan, I wish to learn shapeshifting,_ would come without a fee.

"The spell is already begun. You must go through with it, or it will go badly for us; this, I can promise you."

Sylvanna hesitated, gazing at the dark blood welling up in her palm, but reached out to touch the spider's seeping wound.

"Open your mind," Morrigan instructed. "Seek out her memories, her ancestral knowledge."

Sylvanna closed her eyes, trying to clear her thoughts. The spider's blood felt warm and sticky beneath her hand, and she almost thought she could feel it tensing, even though that was impossible through the paralysis. Thetus whined unhappily, but the sound seemed very far away. She heard the pounding of her heart, the corruption in her veins singing, as Morrigan's magic bound their two essences together.

Images came to her in the darkness, disjointed.

_Clambering over her egg mates, turning on her weaker brothers and sisters; how they writhed as she devoured them. Silence. The joy of the hunt. Dark, comforting shadows of her nest._

_Delicate limbs touching each other in the darkness. Savage joy, fangs sinking into the helpless body of her mate. Sealing the last egg into her nest, wrapped in thin filament strands. Pride._

_Gathering her children, their myriad feet pinpricks against her back. The trembling vibrations of intruders, _ _daring to venture into her lair._

_Agony. Wordless pain, flesh burning, sight dimming._

_Somewhere, someone was calling for her._

"Sylvanna!"

They continued to shout, meaningless words that sounded more distant with each passing moment. She turned away from them, cocooned in the soft web of her memories, the shouts drowned out by the rising tide of her blood.

Sylvanna dreamed.


	2. Dreamer

All mages know the Fade; land of dreamers and demons. Sylvanna looked around herself. She was in the Circle tower, but not as she had last seen it - guttered, littered with the bodies of both mages and templars. Here, the corridors were clean, the air devoid of the stench of abominations and burning flesh. Two apprentices passed her in the hallway, giggling and passing notes, whilst armoured templars stood silently at their posts.

She was wearing apprentice robes, a garish gold and blue confection she had never really gotten used to. She brought her hands to her face, staring at them. They were smooth and clean; her left palm ached, faintly, but there was no corresponding wound that she could discern. She frowned, and turned to look behind her. There was only the plain curve of the corridor, leading down towards the apprentices' dorms.

A gauntleted hand grasped her shoulder, and she turned around, half expecting to see Sten or Alistair. The templar released her, his identity indistinguishable behind the helm. "Nadine wants to see you in her study," he said in a bored voice.

"She - who?" Sylvanna asked in confusion.

"You have a lesson scheduled with Enchanter Nadine. You're already late, apprentice. Move along now," the templar said gruffly.

Sylvanna stared at him blankly, but he was already moving on, continuing with his rounds. She found herself heading towards the stairs, her feet instinctively knowing the path she had walked so many times before.

"Sylvie!"

She turned, not believing her eyes. "Jowan?"

Her friend approached her, a pile of books in his arms and two girls in tow - bubbly, brilliant Charissa and mousy little Marielle. How Jowan managed to always surround himself with girls she had no idea; Maker knew he certainly wasn't a looker. Perhaps shems had lower standards.

"Who else, silly? Look, I heard you've got another primal class with Nadine. Why do you, of all people need help with primal spells? Unless-" Jowan leant closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "you're taking extracurricular studies?" He gave her an over-dramatic wink, while Charissa giggled uncontrollably, and Sylvanna felt a blush spread across her cheeks.

"Still spreading rumours about me, Jowan? Do I have to hex you before you'll stop?"

He sighed, as if deeply wounded by her words. "Fine, I'll leave you alone. Look after yourself though - they don't call Nadine 'the Siren' for nothing!"

"Bye," Charissa said, still laughing.

Blushing furiously, Sylvanna walked quickly to the upper stairs, ignoring the nearby templars who seemed to take no notice of her. She counted the doorways; twenty two, twenty three... twenty four as she reached her destination.

She knocked sharply on the door.

"Come in."

Nadine's study was smaller than that of most enchanters. The space was dominated by an old oak desk, pitted and scarred with marks from misdirected spells. A low fire burned cheerfully behind the desk, and Nadine had decorated the stone walls with soft drapes, a real fur rug spread across the floor. Unlike most children sent to the tower, Nadine's mother still thought of her fondly, it seemed, and the enchanter received gifts from her family at regular intervals.

"I'm so sorry I'm late, Enchanter-" Sylvanna began.

"'Nadine,' please, Sylvanna," her tutor said, smiling. Nadine was young to be promoted to the role of enchanter - skilled, charming and beautiful, she was rumoured to be the daughter of a minor bann, whose family had been devastated when they learnt of her magical abilities. She had been sent to the tower at age eleven, older than most apprentices, but her talent and diplomatic grace had led to a rapid rise through the Circle's hierarchy.

"Sit," Nadine ordered. As Sylvanna obeyed, the enchanter peeked out into the corridor, checking for templars, before closing the door.

"I have something exciting to tell you," Nadine said, taking her seat behind the desk. "Can you guess what it is?"

"Um, no?" Sylvanna said, staring with confusion at the enchanter's face. Everything was as it should be - her long red hair pinned up in an effortlessly tidy pair of braids, eyes lit with anticipation, teeth gleaming prettily when she smiled. Sylvanna could not shake the feeling, however, that something was terribly wrong.

"Come closer then, and I'll whisper it to you."

With trepidation, Sylvanna stood and walked around the desk to stand before her tutor. She crouched down, and Nadine leaned over, her breath warm against Sylvanna's skin.

"In a week's time, they'll be taking you for your Harrowing."

Sylvanna jerked away, her eyes wide with surprise. "Enchan- I mean, Nadine! You're not supposed to be telling me this!"

"Shh!" The enchanter laughed, her eyes flicking briefly towards the door. "Don't be so uptight. I've booked extra lessons for you - you can take Charissa's slots for the next few days, not that you'll need them, of course. I have the highest confidence in you, darling," she purred as she stood up, walking towards Sylvanna. She took the elven girl's hands, drawing her closer.

"Once you're a fully Harrowed mage, I'll no longer be your tutor," Nadine said, putting Sylvanna's hands around her waist, as she wrapped her arms around the girl's shoulders. "There won't be any silly rules keeping us apart. We can see each other whenever - and wherever - we like," she said suggestively, flicking her tongue against the ridge of the Sylvanna's pointed ear.

Sylvanna gasped, trying to think, but it was hard to concentrate with Nadine's hands stroking her hair, her lips placing delicate kisses down her neck. "You still shouldn't have told," she protested feebly, feeling her resistance weakening.

"Then perhaps you should punish me," the enchanter said, laughing with delight as her apprentice eagerly pulled them both onto the soft fur rug.

"The templars will hear us," Sylvanna murmured, running her hands slowly down her tutor's body.

"Then hush, my darling," Nadine whispered, closing her eyes as she arced her body towards Sylvanna's touch.

"Hush."

.

.

.

It was night when Sylvanna woke, naked, in her bed in the apprentices' dorm. There were no windows to see the night sky, but the air tasted different - cooler, cleaner. She could not remember leaving Nadine's room, or undressing before getting into bed (surely she didn't wander nude down the stairs in front of all the templars? Maker forbid!)

She sat up groggily, reaching blindly for her robes. As she dressed, she was struck by the sheer absence of sound - there was always someone whispering in the dorms, or crying, or at the very least there was the soft clanking of templars pacing the corridors. Now - there was simply nothing; just the sound of her own heart beating in the darkness.

"Charissa? Marielle?" she whispered, turning towards the alcove where the two girls bunked.

There was no reply. She spoke again, calling a wisp of light into her hand. The girls' bunks were empty, and as she looked around the dorm, she could see that all of the beds were unoccupied.

Uneasily, she walked into the corridor, her eyes searching for the templar who was supposed to be on duty at all times in front of the dorm. The hallway was empty, and so too was the one beyond it. Sylvanna touched the walls, looking for reassurance. They felt cold, solid - not like a dream at all.

She wandered, calling for anyone to answer her. Around her there was only silence; even the stockroom was empty. Owain had always been there, as far back as she could remember, and the sight of the stockroom devoid of his presence gave her chills. She continued upward, through the senior enchanters' quarters, up to the very top of the tower.

The final door was old and very heavy, and she struggled against it for what felt like ages before it finally opened. A cold gust of air blew in her face, and as she stepped out she tucked her hands into her sleeves, shivering.

"Oh darling, you must be freezing," Nadine said, turning away from the edge of the tower. She smiled, gesturing for Sylvanna to join her side. "Couldn't you sleep?"

"What are you doing here?" Sylvanna asked numbly. She stared into the horizon, trying to make out the edge of lake Calenhad. Even though it was a clear night, the borders of her vision looked fuzzy, undeveloped. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, but that seemed to make it even worse.

"I couldn't sleep either," Nadine said with a sly smile. "I'm been thinking of you - of us being together," she purred, caressing Sylvanna's arm.

"The templars - the mages, they're all gone," Sylvanna said, staring vacantly past the enchanter. Being around Nadine made her feel stupid, made her thoughts slow like ants drowning in honey.

"It's just the two of us, darling. Isn't that what you always wanted? No other apprentices; no Charissa to distract me. No templars or senior enchanters to tell us what we can't do. Just you and me, my pet."

"You're not supposed to be here," Sylvanna insisted, breaking away from Nadine's grasp. She looked down, staring at the dark waters lapping at the base of the tower. "I'm not supposed to be here."

"Oh? Well, we could anywhere you like, my darling. We could travel together, see the world. We don't have to stay in this horrible tower any more. Wouldn't you love to see the Anderfels with me? Maybe visit Orlais, or Antiva?"

"I knew an Antivan once," Sylvanna said slowly. "And an Orlesian. A bard."

She looked up, seeing the smile slipping from Nadine's face.

"I remember..."

.

.

.

"Blood magic," Wynne said grimly, readying a spell of protection.

Sylvanna turned, lightning crackling on her fingertips - and stopped, a look of horror on her face. "Nadine?" she whispered, then was thrown back, crying out as she felt her blood boiling in her veins. She struggled to get up, and then felt something impact beside her, the force of the explosion sending her flying.

She wasn't sure how long she was out, waking only to Wynne's healing energies mending her body and sealing her wounds.

Nadine was still alive when she limped over, but the two other blood mages were dead. Nadine was splattered with blood, her once perfect hair dirty and in disarray. She was asking for her freedom, pleading against all hope for mercy. Alistair was saying something about how the Chantry didn't shelter maleficarum, but Sylvanna could scarcely make out the words, questions roaring inside her head.

"Blood magic?" she whispered. "Why, Nadine? Why didn't you tell me?"

Nadine turned her head, wincing with the effort. "You were just a child, Sylvanna. But now I can see you've become strong." She coughed, blood splattering onto her hands. "Look at you now – a Grey Warden!" She lowered her voice, pleading. "I could teach you, if you let me live. It could be like old times, Sylvanna - you and I..."

"Charissa is dead," Sylvanna said numbly. "Briony. Simon. Lysander. Marielle. Rhiannon - by the Maker, she was only seven, Nadine! You unleashed the abominations that killed them. Their blood is on your hands."

"I - we never wanted anyone to get hurt, Sylvanna," she groaned, clutching her side. Sylvanna cast a healer's eye over her - broken ribs, internal bleeding; she was unlikely to be in any shape to leave the tower. "I love you," Nadine said imploringly, slowly getting to her feet. Alistair and Shale stood instantly to attention; weapons and fists at the ready. Nadine ignored them, taking a step towards Sylvanna.

"You once had feelings for me," she continued. "For the sake of what we once had, let me go."

Sylvanna stared at her, seeing in her mind a woman who had been strong, courageous; a person who had been her friend and confidante in a world where every secret was jealously guarded. "I would have done anything for you," Sylvanna whispered, her voice trembling. "Anything." There were tears in her eyes, she realised, as she blinked them away angrily. "But the woman you once were is no more."

"Sylvanna-"

"Maker have mercy on your soul," the Warden said tonelessly, as her hands filled with a bright flare of light.

Nadine screamed, then was silent at last.

.

.

.

"I – I didn't want to see that again," Sylvanna said, one hand to her mouth. She could taste bile at the back of her throat and gagged, trying to suppress a wave of nausea.

'Nadine' smiled and shrugged disdainfully. "That was your choice. I gave you what you wanted, did I not? We could have been happy together, you and I."

"Up to the point where you drained my soul dry," Sylvanna muttered, looking around her. The drop from the top of the Circle tower was steep, and the demon was blocking the door back to the upper level.

The demon waved a hand dismissively. "You will die anyway, from the taint if not from the darkspawn. Why not spend your last few years pleasantly, instead of fighting a war you cannot win?"

"If the Blight consumes Ferelden, there won't be many souls left for you to feed upon," Sylvanna retorted, considering her options. Could she win a fight against the creature? Probably, she supposed, but that could leave her real body injured, and if she was still out there somewhere in the wilderness, being maimed could be a problem.

"That's why I need to find myself a nice, juicy soul before they become scarce," the demon said lovingly. "And you mages are ever so delicious - power flocks to you, like fireflies to a flame."

"You offer nothing I want," Sylvanna said cautiously, edging closer to the door. Maybe if she stopped the demon for long enough, she could make a run for it.

"And now?" the demon asked, suddenly wearing Morrigan's face. She smiled wickedly, golden eyes almost glowing under the starlight. "Never have you wondered, dear Sylvanna, how 'twould feel to bed a witch?"

"No," Sylvanna lied, preparing a spell in her mind.

"I could teach you much of the wild arts," demon-Morrigan purred suggestively, walking towards Sylvanna with a sway to her hips, the ridiculously revealing robes she wore drifting open, skin pale in the moonlight.

Sylvanna must have blushed, the demon catching her eye and smiling as she shrugged her shoulders so that her flimsy blouse slipped even lower. She cupped a bared breast with one hand, tweaking the nipple to a rosy peak.

"Wouldn't you love a taste?" she offered, tracing her fingertips with lingering slowness across her body.

"I - no!" Sylvanna said, mortified. Only two more yards to the door... but Morrigan (no, the demon) was still in front of her, blocking the way.

"Don't you deserve to be happy, Sylvanna?" she asked in Morrigan's voice. "You've been fighting for so long - don't you deserve to have someone... take care of you?"

"And you think Morrigan would do that for me?" Sylvanna asked angrily, her eyes darting to the side, seeking a way out. "Morrigan – who cares only for herself?" She looked up, gazing into the demon's golden eyes, seeing her face reflected in their luminous surface. "Once, I asked her to learn how to heal," she began conversationally. "Such a little thing – such a tiny little spell – and she refused. So, no – I do not think that she could ever 'take care of me.' But of course, you know this," she chided the demon gently. "You've read my mind." Nadine had been a violation, a perversion of the few tender memories she'd had left, and the seduction rankled at her like an open wound.

"So let us make a deal," the demon suggested softly, as she reverted to her true form. She towered over Sylvanna, her horns glamorously coiled, her tail swishing from side to side angrily like a cat.

"I think not," Sylvanna said. She saw the demon's eyes narrow, and threw herself to the side just as a burst of cold air passed her, freezing the stones where she had just been standing. Her hands darted in the air, impossibly quick, weaving magic together to cage the demon in a rapidly collapsing bubble. As the demon screamed in anger, she reached for the door, wrenching it open and hurtling inside.

She found herself running into a nightmare, the one where she had been unable to save Irving and where Uldred had succeeded in taking over the tower. Lights flickered dimly on either side, illuminating blood splatter on the walls, broken tables, chairs overturned and propped up against doorways as barricades. She slowed, glancing anxiously over her shoulder, but all was quiet.

Apprentices in the Circle were taught from day one that there was only one way to get out of the tower alive, and that was through the massive doors on the ground floor, guarded endlessly by ever-vigilant templars. But this was a dream, and the rules in dreams were strange and changeable from moment to moment.

The creaking of the door behind her made Sylvanna jump in surprise, as the demon slowly entered, looking not the slightest bit worse for wear.

"There you are, little mageling," she breathed, gliding down the stairs. She clapped her hands sharply, and the two doors leading out of the chamber slammed shut. Sylvanna ran to the nearest, pulling against it with all her might, but it refused to budge.

_Where is Shale when I need her_, she thought.

"I wish you wouldn't run," the demon complained. "You might hurt your pretty head, and what use would you be to me then?"

Sylvanna screamed, feeling something touch her ankle, and looked down. A corpse grinned back at her, half its flesh rotted off the face, the hair falling out… but she would recognise that look anywhere.

"You again?" she asked, equal parts amusement and despair.

The corpse moaned, its voice hollow and strained. "Why did you let me die, Sylvie?" It reached for her blindly, and she jerked away in disgust. "I thought you were my friend," it said, its voice pleading, just as she had remembered Jowan pleading with her to help him and Lily.

"Get away from me," Sylvanna said, and cast a spell, the corpse's head exploding into flames. It grunted, but continued to move towards her with the inevitability of death, fire licking through the eye sockets of the skull.

"We were all your friends," a voice called from across the room. Another corpse was rising, a woman - Marielle it seemed, by those silly little plaits she used to wear.

"I wasn't." A third voice spoke from behind the desire demon, shambling into view. The top half of her face had caved in, but there was hardly any decay to her flesh. "Nadine liked you best. You - an elf, of all things! Oh, she smiled and acted as if it wasn't so, but I knew how she really felt," Charissa continued bitterly.

"Nadine is dead," Sylvanna said, backing away slowly. "And so are you."

She spoke a word, psychic energy radiating out around her. The corpse creatures cried out, writhing on the floor in agony. How they had any minds left to feel at all she had never understood. Morrigan had said something about 'psychic resonance' and 'somatic memory,' but she had been far too busy trying to puzzle out how the witch's robes stayed on in a stiff breeze to pay attention.

The demon began chanting, and Sylvanna looked around frantically. Seeing an upturned table, she ducked behind it, feeling the echoes of a spell wash harmlessly off its surface. She could hear groaning from all corners of the room as the demon's minions started to rouse. She needed to win, and soon, before she was swamped by the risen dead. Desperately, her eyes searched for something she could use - settling on a narrow piece of iron, torn free from its place as part of a railing. She hefted it, testing its weight, then ducked as Marielle swiped at her from her left. The corpse groaned in frustration, but Sylvanna wasn't listening, concentrating all her power into a spell.

She spoke, unleashing her energy in a tight arc that caught both the demon and Charissa in its path. They froze in place like malevolent statues, arms outstretched as if reaching for Sylvanna. The demon's face was caught in a snarl, her beauty now twisted to bestial vengeance.

Sylvanna tightened her grasp on the railing, gritted her teeth and swung the bar around with all her might. It connected solidly with the demon, its frozen form cracking instantly with a terrible breaking sound. The pieces fell away, the head shattering as it hit the floor. She dropped the bar, her hands shaking with fatigue. She could hear the Jowan corpse moaning softly, its vocal cords burnt to nothing; could see Marielle shuffling in front of her with an empty look on her face.

The last thing she remembered was Jowan's skeletal hands reaching out for her throat, and the sound of her own voice, screaming.


	3. An Unusual Request

 

"...All I'm saying is, if she was going to wake, she would've done so by now. We should take her to the Circle - it's only across the lake after all, and-"

"You know that would be futile, Alistair. They used the last of their lyrium saving that boy Connor-"

"U-" Sylvanna coughed, trying to get her voice to work.

"Sylvanna?" Alistair asked uncertainly.

She opened her eyes, squinting in the sudden glare of the light. Her gaze instantly went to the blade hovering inches away from her throat; it was wavering far too much for her liking, and she tried to say so, only all that she managed to get out of her mouth was an indeterminate "ugh".

The hand holding the blade tightened, coming closer, and Sylvanna flinched, expecting it to slice off her head at any moment. It was Alistair's hand, she thought, briefly pleased that he had made the rendezvous after all, before the rest of her brain kicked in. _So, there's this ex-templar holding a sword to your throat, and you're a mage who may or may not have been engaging in illicit blood magic, and oh yes, you also seem to have attracted the attention of a demon... nice one, Sylvanna..._

"Oh, for pity's sake, can you not see that she is no abomination?" Morrigan demanded. "Put that thing away now, lest you hurt someone."

The sword hovered for a moment more, then disappeared. Sylvanna breathed a sigh of relief, sitting up slowly. They had taken her to the Spoiled Princess, it seemed; she was lying on a bed with most of her companions crowded around her uncomfortably in the room. With a joyous bark, Thetus leapt onto the bed, covering her face with a wet tongue.

"Uh - thanks, boy. It's nice to see you too," she managed at last. "Thank you for... rescuing me," she said uncertainly to her waiting audience.

"Don't thank him. This idiot here was planning on killing you," Morrigan commented pleasantly.

"He-ey! That's not how it happened at all!" Alistair complained. "Well, I would have killed you," he admitted, turning back to face Sylvanna, "because who wants a Grey Warden mage running around Ferelden as an abomination? Not me, anyway, but well - you didn't, become an abomination that is, so I didn't kill you, and we're all happy now, right?"

"Um..." When he carried on like this, Sylvanna had learned that it was just easier to smile and nod. "All right, Alistair."

The ex-templar breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh good, and here I thought you were going to hold a grudge."

"Well, I'll forgive you faster if you can get me something to eat," she said, as her stomach growled uncomfortably.

"Everyone, give the poor girl some room," Wynne sighed at last, making shooing motions. "She'll be available for questioning later, I promise. Oh - well, you can stay," she said to Thetus, who had refused to move from the bed.

After the last of them had trudged out, the senior enchanter shut the door, looking at the elf thoughtfully. "Are you hurt, my dear?" she asked finally, walking over to her. "Your hand-"

Sylvanna glanced down. Her left hand had been bandaged neatly; her palm throbbed slightly underneath the dressing but she could flex her fingers, even make a fist. "I think I'm fine," she said.

"Let me see," Wynne instructed firmly as she took a seat on the bedspread, unwinding the bandages. Morrigan must have applied a poultice as traces of the salve still remained, but the skin was unbroken, with not even a scar to show any signs of damage.

"It must have been just a scratch," Sylvanna suggested innocently. "How did I get here?"

The elder mage frowned at her, not looking entirely convinced. "Morrigan brought you, along with your dog. What happened? Morrigan has been terribly reluctant to speak about it, for some reason," Wynne said dryly.

Sylvanna didn't answer for a moment, staring at the one small window set in the room. It still looked light outside, around early evening. She must have unconscious for a while. "I asked Morrigan to teach me a spell," she began slowly. "And... well, it didn't go as planned."

"Oh?" Wynne arched one brow, looking at her companion sceptically. "And what spell was that?"

"A spell to raise the dead," Sylvanna said evenly, keeping her face blank. It was unpleasant, perhaps, but certainly not as bad as the truth. "I - we found a nest of spiders. I tried, but... it was too hard for me. I couldn't hold it. The next thing I know, I woke up here," she finished, raising her eyes to Wynne's.

"Mm-hmm." The older woman considered her for a moment more, but Sylvanna was used to this, having fibbed her way out of trouble at the tower more times than she could remember. The pranks that Jowan would come up with... she looked away, a unexpected lump forming in her throat. Poor, foolish Jowan.

"Well, I'm glad to see you've recovered," Wynne said doubtfully. "The others are, too. Come down when you're ready," she said finally, smiling sweetly as she left the room.

Sylvanna sighed, looking down at her mabari. "Well... at least you still like me, right?" she asked dolefully.

Thetus barked happily, nuzzling her face.

"Oh, you'll love me more once when we eat, hmm? Very well," she smiled, as they both headed downstairs to feed their respective stomachs.

.

.

.

Her hunger satisfied at last, Sylvanna tossed uneasily on the bed, trying to get comfortable. Alistair had half-seriously suggested putting a watch on her, until she had silenced his suggestion with a look of horror. At dinner, she had repeated the same story as told to Wynne, glancing apprehensively at Morrigan as she did so, but they had appeared to have accepted it.

Leliana had filled her in on everything else she had missed – Brother Genitivi, Weylon's imposter, and their new destination, the village of Haven. It still sounded all a little unlikely to Sylvanna. She had never been particularly devout or apt to believe things on faith alone, but Leliana seemed determined to try.

Sighing, she decided to give up on the idea of sleep, sitting up and tugging on her stockings and boots. She had said nothing about her encounter with the demon, but suspected that the two other mages knew, or thought they knew. It wasn't that she was afraid to go to sleep, she told herself, it was just... difficult. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see Jowan's face hovering over her, or sometimes it was Nadine, or Charissa. She would feel better if she took a walk, instead of visiting old ghosts.

Fumbling with her cloak, she made her way down the stairs, blinking in the sudden light of the common room. Oghren was still drinking, she was dismayed to see, and he wasn't alone.

"Try some of the ale," he managed to lisp, waving a tankard in her general direction. She flinched, screwing her nose up in disgust as droplets landed on her blouse. "It's mag- magni-, it's superb."

"Alistair. Zevran. Don't you think it's time to call it a night?" she demanded, doing her best imitation of Wynne's school mistress voice.

"Sylvanna! You're still not an abom- a, a thingie, whatsit, with the fire, and the – ouch!" Alistair whined, rubbing his shin where Zevran had kicked him.

"Won't you join us, my dear?" the elf asked her smoothly, nudging a chair out for her. "I promise not to bite... unless you enjoy that sort of thing, of course," he smiled.

Sylvanna raised her hands in defeat, backing away. "No thanks. Just... try to stop before someone gets hurt, and make sure Oghren keeps his pants on this time, okay?"

She ducked out the back before either of them could reply, breathing a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind her. She didn't blame them, not really; but she wasn't looking forward to having to babysit a grumpy, sober dwarf and the hungover heir to Ferelden in the morning.

She walked towards the docks, not really knowing where she was going. What was it that Leliana said about the night? That it was peaceful? It was slightly chilly, but not uncomfortably so, and she could see the tower – the real tower, this time – clearly across the water. It was... strange, looking at it from the outside. She didn't want to go back, not at all, but everything there was so familiar, so -

"Warden."

Sylvanna jumped, preparing herself for bandits, mercenaries, muggers – but it was only Morrigan sitting quietly in the darkness, her legs swinging over the edge of the pier.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there – may I join you?"

Morrigan shrugged expressively, not even looking at her. Taking that as a good sign, Sylvanna sat near her, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. They sat in silence for some time, listening to the gentle murmur of water washing against the pylons of the dock.

"About... before," Sylvanna said eventually. "I mean, about the lesson. Thank you. For trying."

"'Trying'?" the witch asked at last, turning to her with a laugh. "'Trying' will not end the Blight, nor will it slay the archdemon. I hope for all our sakes that you do not 'try' at all your endeavours."

Sylvanna coloured at the rebuke, for once having nothing to say. She had put herself and her companions at risk on a whim, and very nearly paid the price for it. As it was, she had damaged her reputation with Wynne and now Morrigan, with nothing to show for it aside from a few bruises.

"You're right," she said at last. "You tried to warn me, and I should have listened to you. I'm sorry."

Morrigan examined her intently, seemingly unsatisfied. "Why ask for such a thing in the first place? Your skill in battle is... sufficient. Why seek to learn a talent so different from your own?"

Sylvanna shrugged, not meeting the witch's gaze. "Knowledge is power, right?"

"That may be so, but a little knowledge is a dangerous thing."

"I... yes," Sylvanna sighed. "You are right. I'm sorry."

"For what?" Morrigan asked, looking at her with interest.

Sylvanna squirmed uncomfortably, smoothing her hair behind her ears; something she had always done when she was nervous. "For putting you in that position. I just thought - well, I don't know." She looked out onto the lake, watching the ripples moving fluidly across the water. "I've learnt so much since - since leaving the tower. All those theories, all those ideas - I see now how they fit together. How things work. But - I guess -" she looked over at the witch uneasily, expecting her to interrupt with a well placed barb or two, but Morrigan was silent, watching her intently.

"When I was younger, I would watch the birds. The templars let us up on the roof sometimes, not for long and under heavy supervision, of course. But - I always used to envy the birds. They seemed so light, so free. I wanted-"

"You wanted to turn into a pretty little sparrow and fly far, far away," Morrigan suggested at last.

"Well..." Sylvanna blushed, feeling foolish. "Yes. Is that so wrong?"

"What I do not understand is why you let them keep you locked away there. Were there not enough mages of sufficient power and sense to do away with the templars entirely? Surely if the majority of them were as Alistair is, it would have been most simple to just kill them all."

"I... you don't understand," Sylvanna protested. "I was taken to the tower when I was six. The templars - they watched everything, always. There was... no room for rebellion, or even for thinking it. They were merciless."

"So you waited in your tower to be rescued, like a good little girl."

"No, I-"

"I wonder, if Duncan had not come for you. What then? Would you have joined your blood mage lover, finally, or simply let Uldred turn you into an abomination?"

"I think – wait." Sylvanna stopped, looking up at Morrigan worriedly. "How do you know about that?"

"About what?"

"About..." Sylvanna blushed. "My – I mean, the blood mage."

"You talk in your sleep, sometimes," Morrigan said casually, as if it were a matter of no concern.

"You watch me sleep?" Sylvanna asked, aghast. "No - you're joking. Alistair was there - I expect he told you after one too many drinks, right?"

"Believe what you will, it makes no difference to me."

Slightly disturbed, (what else had she been apparently saying in her sleep?), Sylvanna contemplated her hands for a moment, trying to think of an adequate response. She needed to trim her nails, she thought absently; the state of them would have earned her a rap across the knuckles at the Circle tower or a disappointed sigh from Nadine... she felt a lump forming in her throat, and she swallowed, hard, bringing her mind back to the present.

"I'm not sure that I would have been in a position to do anything. After Jowan escaped, they were prepared to either execute me or make me Tranquil. I think the former would have been preferable."

Morrigan seemed satisfied with the answer as she said no more on the subject, for which Sylvanna was grateful. Remembering Jowan was... painful.

Sylvanna coughed, getting to her feet. "I should probably make sure that the boys haven't broken anything yet. I don't think I could afford to furnish another inn."

"Wait," Morrigan said, as she turned to go. Sylvanna was surprised, but resumed her seat. It was unusual for Morrigan to be so... chatty. That tended to be Leliana's role.

Sylvanna looked at her companion expectantly. "What is it, Morrigan?"

"I... have a favour to ask of you," the witch ventured at last, looking uncomfortable.

"Well, I owe you one. Ask away," Sylvanna said, wondering what Morrigan could possibly want from her that she couldn't manage herself. Her mind flashed through possibilities, scenarios, but none so strange as the favour that was finally requested.

"I need you to kill my mother."


	4. In the Wilds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy Easter, and thank you for all the feedback! It's been very interesting reading predictions for what's going to happen next :-)

"Ow!"

"Stop squirming, you big baby. Andraste's flaming knickers, how Wynne managed to live with you all those weeks I'll never understand."

Alistair sulkily obeyed, looking down at the ugly mess of his arm with interest. His shield had saved him from the worst of Flemeth's fiery breath, but a large portion of his sword arm and shoulder had been badly affected. After making sure the Flemeth-dragon-witch was really dead, Sylvanna had ordered him into the shack to treat his wounds. It was odd, sitting in a dead woman's cabin; strange to think of it as the place where Morrigan had spent most of her life.

"No wonder she's such a bitch," he muttered.

"What?"

"Did I say that out loud? Just, you know, thinking to myself. Nothing to see here."

Sylvanna frowned at him, a tiny crease appearing between her eyes. Usually when she got that face, it was a prelude to another "Alistair, stop harassing Thetus," or "Alistair, if I catch you picking at that wound again I'll hex you," or "Alistair, did you eat the last of the cheese?" speech. This time, however, she was silent, preoccupied with laying out clean bandages on the low table beside the bed.

"Do you think she's really dead?" he asked finally, flinching as Sylvanna approached him with a damp rag.

"Hard to say." Sylvanna passed a bare hand over the worst of his wounds, encouraging the damaged flesh to knit and regenerate itself. He still hadn't gotten used to the feeling, even after travelling with the two healers for almost a year (Maker's breath, had it really been that long?) It felt somehow like something between a tickle and an itch, utterly frustrating yet soothing at the same time.

"Morrigan didn't think that we could kill her – not permanently, at least. If she truly is the Flemeth of legend, then I doubt we have seen the last of her," Sylvanna continued, dabbing at the healed flesh that had almost instantaneously scabbed over. Layers of burnt, dry skin sloughed away under her ministrations, almost as though he was a snake.

"Yeah... about that," Alistair began, wincing as the elf scrubbed a particularly tender spot. "If she's not really dead anyway, why didn't you... you know, take the deal? Just take the grimoire and go?"

Sylvanna squeezed out the rag into a bowl, rinsing it with fresh water. "I couldn't do that to Morrigan," she said eventually. "She probably wouldn't have believed me anyway."

"Uh-huh," Alistair said sceptically. "So, it had nothing to do with you having the hots for our resident raven-haired evil baby-eating witch?"

"Of course not! I mean, I don't!" Sylvanna insisted, her cheeks flushing. "And witches don't eat babies – that's a nasty rumour spread around by illiterate people who are afraid of mages."

"Flemeth probably ate babies."

Sylvanna sighed. "Turn over," she ordered.

Alistair obeyed, resisting the urge to poke the patches of shiny new skin that had healed over. "I've seen the looks you give her," he continued, somewhat muffled. "Morrigan, I mean, obviously. You... eat her up with your eyes."

"Oh, and it's not like you haven't admired a woman's assets before?" Sylvanna retorted, continuing with her work with more force than was necessary.

"Ow! ...I just don't understand what you see in her. I mean she's beautiful, yes, but she's also mean and spiteful and a bi-" Alistair stopped, swallowing his words just in time. "And she undermines your decisions at almost every turn."

"You don't agree with me all the time either, you know," Sylvanna said. "Remember how we met Zev? Or Shale? It bothered me the most with Zev," she admitted. "I mean, yes, he had just tried to kill us, but it's not like he chose to become an assassin – just like you didn't choose to be a templar, and I didn't choose to be a mage. I thought you could have been more understanding."

"It was that 'trying to kill us' part that threw me, really," Alistair said sarcastically. "Strange how that colours your opinion of someone."

Sylvanna sighed, again. She had been doing that a lot, recently.

"So... Morrigan," he went on, determined to get an answer. "Do you like her? I mean, really like, like her?" he asked in a tone of disbelief. "She'd probably kill her own mother – oh wait, she already did."

"Very funny, Alistair," Sylvanna said dryly. "Sit up," she told him, rubbing a salve into the healed skin. "She could be a bit more agreeable, I suppose, but she hasn't exactly had a normal childhood, has she? I've seen her at camp sometimes, watching us... she just seems so lonely."

"Morrigan could join us at any time," Alistair argued. "She simply chooses to be alone."

"Well, if you grew up with Flemeth as your only role model, wouldn't you be a little wary of others? Morrigan is one of the most intelligent women I've ever known. She's strong; she had to be, growing up with a mother like that. She can handle herself in a fight and she's witty and dangerous and... exciting," Sylvanna admitted.

"So you do like her then," he insisted, hanging onto the thread of the conversation like Thetus with a bone.

"It doesn't matter what I like," Sylvanna snapped, his words obviously hitting a raw nerve. "It's not as though she's ever given any indication of …feeling that way about me."

"Leliana likes you," Alistair pointed out, unhelpfully. "She's always making excuses to play with your hair."

"Leliana and I are just friends," the elf said, glancing outside to see if the bard had overheard. Zevran appeared to be teasing her, again; Sylvanna had long given up trying to get the assassin to restrain himself. "If you like her so much, why don't you say something?"

"Me?" Alistair squeaked incredulously. "Why would Leliana like someone like me?"

"You make her laugh, I suppose?" Sylvanna hazarded. "And... you're a prince? Women like royalty, right?"

Alistair laughed bitterly. "Hasn't helped me so far."

"That's because you've never told anyone else. If you become King, you'll have to marry, anyway."

"Yes, well... let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said uncomfortably, disliking the sudden change in conversation. He let Sylvanna work in silence for some time, as she began to cover his new skin in bandages.

"About Morrigan..." Alistair sighed. He was probably the last one who should be giving out this sort of advice, but someone had to say it, right? "Just be careful, okay? Don't let her rip out your heart and eat it, or whatever you crazy mage women like to do."

Sylvanna laughed. "Honestly, you have nothing to worry about," she said, winding bandages over his shoulder and down his arm. "But... thanks anyway. It's good to know you've got my back."

"Any time, oh fearless leader," Alistair grinned, giving a crisp salute and then grimacing in pain as the newly formed muscles in his shoulder complained – loudly. "I guess we should get going – darkspawn to kill, Blights to end and all that."

"Here," Sylvanna said, tossing his shirt to him. "That armour's going to chafe," she warned, as he started to buckle his breastplate on over his tunic. There was no helping it, though; they were at least two hours from camp and with the darkspawn presence, it was too risky to venture out unprepared.

"Yes, it does," Alistair confirmed, wincing.

"Why don't you go on ahead," Sylvanna suggested, packing up her poultices. "I'll just be a minute more."

"Sure," Alistair said as he stood up, happy enough to be out of the 'sickroom'.

Sylvanna watched him until he was out of sight, then retrieved the grimoire, settling the heavy tome on her lap. She ran a hand over the leather cover, tracing the stitching on the front with her fingertips. This would probably be her only chance to study it alone.

She flipped the book open, her eyes running over the cramped, spidery writing. She turned to the next page, and the next. Cursing in frustration, she flipped to the end of the book, searching in vain for a section where the text didn't squirm and writhe in illegible black lines upon the page.

Deciphering the text without an intimate knowledge of Flemeth's methods could take years, if not longer. There was probably only one living person who had any chance of being able to read it.

"I'll just have to trust her, won't I?" Sylvanna said to herself. Glancing down at the grimoire, she wrapped it in oil cloth and tucked it under her arm.

"We're leaving without you!" Alistair called, his voice sounding distant.

"Coming!" Sylvanna shouted back, taking a final glance around the cabin. It felt like a lifetime since she had woken here, practically naked to find Morrigan leaning over her. "Don't get your hopes up," she murmured to herself, then ran outside without looking back, glad to finally leave the witch's shack with its secrets and mysteries and memories of death.


	5. The Witch and I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter contains a small amount of in-game dialogue, which belongs to BioWare with the rest of Dragon Age. Please note that the story rating has increased to 'M' and that this chapter is NSFW.

_Of all the things I could have imagined would have resulted when Flemeth told me to go with you, the very last would have been that I would find in you a friend. Perhaps even a sister._

_I want you to know that while I may not always prove worthy of your friendship, I will always value it._

~Morrigan

.

.

.

"I found these, as well," Sylvanna said, handing over a bundle of fabric and leather. "I think they're even more revealing than your last pair – not that that's a problem, of course... I mean, not that I want you to catch cold or anything... Maker, I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"Indeed, you are," Morrigan commented, not unkindly, as she held up the robes. "These will do quite nicely – thank you," she said, glancing at Sylvanna.

"You're welcome," Sylvanna said as she blushed. She thought that Morrigan would be pleased when they returned, battered and bruised but still upright from facing Flemeth, but she had hardly dared to dream that she would be so... nice. It was strange, being called 'friend' and even 'sister' by the witch, but it was... pleasant. Well, maybe she didn't want to be considered to be a 'sister', as of such, but it was an improvement from 'fool', right?

"I have been unkind to you," Morrigan confessed, after she had packed her new robes away. Before Sylvanna could ask for clarification on her comment, she continued. "Have you eaten?"

"Thetus needed a bath - so no, I haven't," Sylvanna answered, confused by the question.

"While you were away, I took the opportunity to replenish my supplies. I have stew on the fire, if you'd care to join me." Interpreting Sylvanna's absolute shock as hesitation, she added, "I can promise you that my talent at cooking far exceeds Alistair's."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Sylvanna laughed, remembering Morrigan's promise when they first met that she was an able cook. In all the time they had journeyed together, she had never been able to test that promise once, with the witch always preferring to dine alone. "I would love to join you for dinner. I am absolutely starving."

"What a surprise," Morrigan commented, but there was a small smile playing at the corner of her lips.

They ate in companionable silence, Sylvanna polishing off three bowls before she felt satisfied. She had laughed to Alistair once that at least she didn't have to worry about out-growing her robes; not with all their running back and forth across the country, being hunted by darkspawn and on top of that, side effects from the taint that caused the Wardens to have unnaturally large appetites. She had been trying to get him to smile and to stop moping about Duncan, but the attempt hadn't been all that successful.

"You're right," Sylvanna said as she scraped the last dregs from her bowl. "Your cooking is wonderful."

"Says the woman who devours anything."

"Just because I'm not fussy doesn't mean I enjoy everything," Sylvanna protested. "But really, it was delicious. You'd make someone a good wife if you weren't so..."

"Independent?" Morrigan asked coolly. "Concerned for my own sanity? In possession of a mind of my own?"

"Forceful."

Morrigan scoffed. "As I said to the dwarf, I have no desire to be chained to a husband."

"But you like men well enough," Sylvanna argued, remembering how she had flirted with Sten, to disastrous effect.

"One thing need not lead to another. I have no desire to make claims on a man's freedom, nor would I wish the same fate upon myself."

"And what of women, then?"

"I – must you probe me so?" Morrigan asked angrily.

"Well, I could do more than probe," Sylvanna suggested thoughtfully.

"And now you sound like Zevran. Well done."

"That wasn't an answer."

Sylvanna waited, looking at Morrigan expectantly. At last the witch gave up, conceding defeat.

"Very well – if it will make you leave me in peace," Morrigan sighed. "I knew of few women in the Wilds. Disgusting though they are, the Chasind do not let their women roam aimlessly on their own, and while I would venture through a town from time to time, 'twas hardly the place to risk that sort of tryst. There. Have I satisfied your curiosity, at last?"

"So you've never-"

"What do you think?"

There was a pause for a moment as Sylvanna considered her options. _Oh, sod it, _she thought. What did she have to lose, after all?

"Would you like to?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

Morrigan let the silence drag on for what felt like hours to Sylvanna, before she finally glanced up at the Warden. "That is a... curious suggestion. Are you offering your services, perchance? Surely you have more important duties to attend to, such as darning Alistair's socks, for instance?"

"I gave that job to Wynne," Sylvanna grinned, earning a laugh from Morrigan.

"So being the leader has its perks, hmm?" Morrigan chuckled, before leaning towards Sylvanna, a light gleaming wickedly in her eyes. "And to answer your question... yes. I think I would like that very much."

"Good," said Sylvanna, and kissed her.

.

.

.

Sylvanna let her fingers linger against the back of Morrigan's neck, leaning into the kiss. She could feel a giddy fluttering in her chest, an eager impulse that she sought to quell. _I really, really hope this isn't a dream, _she thought. _Dear Maker, please let this not be a dream._

She leant back, gazing up at Morrigan with a thoughtful expression. "You are beautiful, you know."

The witch arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Am I?" she asked, amused but secretly satisfied, Sylvanna suspected.

"Please," Sylvanna said, taking Morrigan's hands and leading them both to their feet. "Let's not be coy," she whispered, wrapping her arms around the witch's neck and standing on her toes for another kiss. She closed her eyes, feeling the softness of Morrigan's lips, the teasing dart of her tongue. She smelled of herbs and poultices, overlaid with the electric thrill of magical energy.

She entwined their fingers together, drawing them into the cramped darkness of Morrigan's tent. Pushing the witch down into the blankets, she was rewarded with a throaty chuckle, followed by further exploration with lips and tongue. She let her hands wander teasingly down Morrigan's body, finding that, true to their flimsy appearance, her robes allowed easy access to copious amounts of skin.

Grabbing a fistful of fabric in her hand, Sylvanna pulled down sharply, tearing the robes off Morrigan's shoulders.

"Are we a little eager, perhaps?"

"Don't complain," Sylvanna retorted. "I just gave you another dress."

"If you're going to ruin my clothing, then perhaps I should return the favour," Morrigan said slyly, flipping the elf on to her back.

Sylvanna helped her, cursing the intricate fastenings on her own robes. Finally she was free, kicking off her stockings and boots to the back of the tent.

The feeling of skin on skin was incredible, and she sighed, running her calf up against Morrigan's leg.

The witch touched her, tentatively at first but growing bolder with Sylvanna's murmured encouragement. Sylvanna directed her with her hands, arching her body against hers as Morrigan squeezed her breast roughly.

Morrigan's hair had worked free of its bun, tumbling over her shoulders and tickling Sylvanna on her lips.

"Why don't you wear your hair out more often?" she asked, twining her fingers into the tendrils. "It's lovely."

"Must you... talk so much?" Morrigan murmured, between planting kisses across her neck.

"Maybe you should make me stop – oh," she gasped as Morrigan employed the use of her teeth. The moments melded into each other as she lost track of time, exploring, sensing through touch and taste the delicate fabric of now and here.

She felt Morrigan's knee touching the inside of her thigh, spreading her legs as the witch leaned forward.

"Wait," Sylvanna said, sitting up. She leaned in for a kiss, stroking Morrigan's glossy hair and letting it pool through her fingertips before shifting position, twisting so that her hands were on Morrigan's hips, pushing her down into the blankets. She bent her head down, placing delicate kisses across the witch's stomach, heading lower.

"Sylvanna- " Morrigan began, as a warning.

"Don't you trust me?" Sylvanna asked, looking up for a moment.

"It is not a matter of trust."

"Relax," Sylvanna murmured, running her hands soothingly over Morrigan's thighs. "I think you might like this." She lowered her head, finally falling silent at last as her lips and tongue were otherwise engaged. She felt Morrigan's hands twisting into her hair, pulling so sharply that it hurt and tears came to her eyes.

"Sylvanna," Morrigan breathed, as though in prayer.

Sylvanna made use of her hands, putting the flexibility from years of spell casting to good use. Morrigan's grip on her tightened, long nails digging into her skull. The witch arched her body suddenly, almost throwing the elf off balance with the violence of the movement.

After the moment had passed, Sylvanna slowly sat up and tucked her knees under her, brushing the hair from her face. Morrigan turned away from her, not meeting her eyes.

"Are... you all right?" Sylvanna began, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

The witch avoided her hand, drawing back from her as she sat up. "What a strange thing to ask." She hesitated for a moment, a look of distaste crossing her face. "Are you... expecting me to return the favour?"

"I would never force you into something you didn't want," Sylvanna replied, stung by the tone of her voice. She glanced away, suddenly regretting having come this far. It was foolish, to think that someone like Morrigan would... desire... someone like her.

"Sylvanna..." Morrigan sighed, reaching for her in apology. She stroked the elf's back, feeling her shiver under her fingertips.

Sylvanna turned, glancing up at the witch's face. "You don't need to do anything," she offered, her expression serious.

"I want to."

Wordlessly, Morrigan pushed her down into the sheets, leaning her weight against her. She hesitated a moment, then ran her fingers down Sylvanna's back, slipping a hand between her legs. The elf flinched, then took Morrigan's wrist, guiding her by touch and the occasional murmured instruction.

Sylvanna turned her face into the pillow, gritting her teeth. "Hold me," she begged at last, digging her nails into the witch's skin as she bit her lip to avoid crying out.

She closed her eyes tightly, listening to the gradual slowing of her heartbeat, the feeling of sweat drying on her thighs. She turned, looking for Morrigan, only to find the witch already in the process of getting dressed.

"No cuddling?" she pouted, reaching out to draw the witch back down beside her.

Morrigan laughed, pushing her hands away easily. "If that is what you were seeking, you would have bedded Leliana, would you not? Come now, the hour grows late."

Sylvanna sighed, grudgingly reaching for her own robes and fiddling sloppily with the clasps. Morrigan watched her, a curious expression on her face.

"I trust that this has not... changed our friendship?"

"Changed?" Sylvanna asked, struggling with a buckle. "In what way?"

"We are still friends, I trust? You do not... desire more?"

"Oh." Sylvanna frowned, noting that she had accidentally thrown on her blouse inside-out. "Well... I'm not sure what you mean," she confessed, looking up at Morrigan at last, finding the witch staring at her intently.

"I have no designs on your independence," Morrigan explained. "I wish only to do what I desire, and if that coincides with what you desire... then so be it. And should you decide not to continue our... misadventure, then so be it. Very simple, is it not?"

A flicker of what may have been disappointment showed briefly in Sylvanna's eyes, before she smiled, looking up at the witch. "That is very... practical of you," she said finally, the ghost of a smile playing upon her lips. "I can live with that."

"Then we should get along marvellously," Morrigan laughed. "Come, then," she said, escorting the elf from her tent. "Let us be off, before the others begin to stare."


	6. Laundry Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter contains a small amount of in-game dialogue, which obviously belongs to BioWare along with the rest of Dragon Age. Thank you very much for the reviews, I enjoy reading them all :-)

It was a terrible morning. The sun was far too bright, for one, shining through the window with its insidious… shininess. Sylvanna groaned restlessly, then sat up abruptly in bed, gagging. Dear Maker, what was that smell...?

She stumbled out of bed, pressing her hand to her mouth, and fell to her knees. Holding the hair off her face, she bent over a chamberpot and promptly threw up.

Feeling somewhat better, she managed to make her way to the wash basin, where the ice-cold water helped her wake up, a little. She stared at herself in the mirror and was horrified by her reflection – there were dark circles under her eyes, her hair was a mess and it appeared that she had slept in her clothes from the day before.

Looking around the room, she found the source of the smell at last – a huge pile of what appeared to be unwashed linens, nestled in a wicker hamper at the foot of her bed. There was a note on the top of the pile, stuck there with a long, slender pin. She grabbed it, noting the slightly childish writing and pale yellow mug stains on the paper.

_Dear Sylvanna,_ read the note, _please wash me._

She turned the note over. On the other side, in different writing, it read: _PS: You owe Oghren ten sovereigns._

"I can't believe this is happening to me," Sylvanna groaned to herself.

The faint scent of ale from the paper triggered memories that she had hoped to bury. It had been late last night, as they celebrated Arl Eamon's miraculous recovery back to health...

.

.

.

"Another pint," Oghren said gleefully, slamming his empty tankard down on the table.

Sylvanna groaned. "Is this how men always celebrate? By getting drunk?"

"Well, my dear, not all of us are blessed with beautiful companions who are eager to share our beds," Zevran said regretfully. "Why are you not together with her right now?"

"Morrigan doesn't believe that a celebration is in order."

"You saved a man's life and gave a father and husband back to his family," Alistair argued. "That's a pretty damn good reason to drink as any."

"Nah, you've got it all wrong. You don't need an excuse to drink," Oghren interrupted. "Just the drink."

Zevran pushed a glass in front of her face. It was a sickly blood colour, and had what appeared to be a piece of fruit floating in it.

"What's this?" Sylvanna asked cautiously, poking the floating object.

"It's made from grapes hand-picked by the virginal sisters of an Antivan Chantry. Try it," he suggested eagerly.

Sylvanna looked up to find all of her companions staring at her expectantly. Gingerly, she picked up the glass and took a cautious sip. "It's... very sweet," she managed at last.

Oghren laughed at her. "It'll rot your teeth," he said, pushing another, much smaller glass in front of her. "Try that instead."

Feeling the weight of expectation on her shoulders, Sylvanna did so, and promptly started coughing and spluttering. Alistair slapped her on the back, which did nothing to alleviate the burning in her throat.

"Ow!" Sylvanna complained. "That wasn't necessary."

"Oghren has no respect for a lady's delicate tastes," Zevran said apologetically. "And I must say that I thoroughly approve of your taste in women. So tell us, dear Warden," he asked eagerly, leaning in towards her, "is she truly a demon in bed? Or in the tent, as it were?"

"Not this again-" Sylvanna groaned.

"Has she ever changed, you know, during?" Oghren leered cheerfully at her.

"Alistair, help me out here," Sylvanna pleaded.

"Uh uh – no way I'm getting involved," the ex-templar said, backing away.

Cursing Alistair in her mind, Sylvanna shut them up the only way she knew how.

"Let's play a game!" she announced brightly.

.

.

.

"Stupid, stupid thing to do," Sylvanna muttered to herself.

The rules of the game had been simple – first one under the table had to do all the others' laundry the next day. It was the first thing she could think of, and she never thought that they would actually go through with it...

_I bet they're still snugly in bed, the smug bastards,_ she thought bitterly.

She managed to work the hamper onto her hip, the pile of tunics and small clothes and whatever else that was in there tottering precariously. The Arlessa would have been horrified, of course, to find one of her guests doing their own laundry, but Isolde was far too preoccupied with her husband to be aware of all the minutiae of her household that morning. Struggling downstairs with the hamper balanced against her hip, Sylvanna almost walked right into one of the castle's maids, her burden encumbering both her movement and her vision.

"Forgive me my clumsiness, ser," the maid said instantly, her eyes lowered in submission. She had the kind of face that would have been lovely, lines of care prematurely weathered into skin that had seen years of working in the open air. Her flaxen hair was swept into a practical bun, tendrils falling over her face as she bowed her head. A pale blue kerchief covered most of her hair and completely covered her ears, although in any case there could be little doubt as to her race - her face was too pointed, the hands too slender to belong to a human.

"The fault was entirely mine," Sylvanna protested. "Please don't apologise."

The maid looked up at last, her eyes widening in surprise as she took in Sylvanna's dishevelled appearance. "So you are the Grey Warden?" she asked, somewhat doubtfully. "Ser," she added, lowering her eyes again.

Horribly aware of her frightful state, Sylvanna tried to smooth her hair down with one hand. The action caused her hamper to almost tip over, and she grabbed at it quickly, rebalancing the load against her body. "I'm one of them, yes," she said, now thoroughly embarrassed. "I'm a mage," she blurted out, as if that explained everything.

"My nephew was taken to the Circle tower last year," the maid said quietly. "He was barely eight."

A few of the children had been saved, Sylvanna remembered, protected by Wynne's barrier and a handful of terrified apprentices. But far too many had been lost. There had been scattered, like dolls; tiny broken bodies swept up in a chaos and fury not of their own making.

"I'm sorry," Sylvanna said, painfully aware of what little comfort her words would bring. She could not even remember their names (only their faces: wide-eyed and tearful, tiny hands clutching at her robes, seeking comfort where she had none to offer, bewildered as she was by a nightmarish homecoming that she had never expected to experience). "I - I have laundry to do," she said at last, to fill the silence more than anything else. At the sight of the maid's weary eyes turning towards her, she took a step back, clutching the hamper protectively to her chest. "I'm not expecting you to do it, of course," she babbled, suddenly feeling very young and very foolish.

The maid shrugged her thin shoulders. "Grey Warden mages must have far more important things to attend to than laundry."

"No -" Sylvanna began, then stopped. That wasn't entirely true; Arl Eamon had requested an audience with Alistair and herself, but mercifully that meeting had been planned for the evening, as Alistair at present was probably not entirely… disposed to have a tactical discussion. As it was, Sylvanna was nursing a splitting headache of her own, which she fervently hoped would go away.

"I washed my own clothes in the Circle," Sylvanna protested at last. "Could you just show me where the laundry room is? I promise not to break anything," she added, at the maid's sceptical look.

"Come with me," the servant said, turning and walking quickly down the hallway. It took all of Sylvanna's concentration to both carry the hamper and to keep up with her, at the same time making sure that none of the clothes slipped away from the pile that she was precariously balancing. By the time they had reached the laundry room, Sylvanna's arms had begun to protest with fatigue.

"Is the arlessa a good mistress?" she asked as the maid opened up the room, unlocking the double doors that led out onto the courtyard.

"Of course!" the servant snapped instantly, eyes searching for onlookers around her as she spoke. "It is not like other arlings," she said, raising her eyes defiantly to Sylvanna's, "where you are expected to earn your keep on your knees scrubbing flagstones by day and on your back whoring by night."

"I didn't mean any disrespect," Sylvanna began anxiously.

"On the other hand, most other arlings don't have undead walking the halls or demon-possessed children who mutilate their servants," the maid continued bitterly. The venom in her voice made Sylvanna flinch, and she took a closer look at the elf – realising now with horror that the tight kerchief she wore over her hair was too smooth to be hiding anything but gaping wounds where her ears must have once been.

"I – I'm a healer," Sylvanna offered, appalled that she had forgotten the lingering consequences of Connor's brutal reign. "Let me help you-"

"No!" the maid shouted, drawing back from the Grey Warden, her face twisted in anger. "You mages have done enough damage here. Better you had stayed in your tower and died with the rest of them!"

Absolutely lost for words, Sylvanna could only stare at the servant, who was regaining her composure with difficulty.

"Is there anything else you require, ser?" the maid enquired formally, her eyes gazing at a point beyond Sylvanna's face.

"No – no, thank you," Sylvanna stammered, aware that she was staring.

The maid gave her a curt nod and left. Sylvanna watched her as she walked away, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach that had nothing to do with her hangover. She would speak to the Arlessa as soon as she could, she thought; surely there was something that could be done for those who had been brutalised by the demon...

Suddenly she was overcome with anger. Why hadn't Isolde mentioned this to them? She knew that they were healers; there was no reason for her servants to suffer in silence.

"Laundry first," Sylvanna muttered to herself, "then that woman will get what she deserves."

The laundry room was deserted, filled only with the smells of soap and crisp linen. Sylvanna set her hamper down on a bench, rubbing her aching arms. A huge cast iron pot sat in a corner of the room, propped up over a pile of logs. Using a footstool, she stepped up and peered into it. A small amount of water remained at the bottom, reflecting her face back at her.

She carefully stepped down, giving the room an appraising look. There were a few buckets in a corner, a long basin and even a hand-operated wringer. Overhead, taunt strands of cord were strung from wall to wall.

"Sylvanna! Maker's breath, child, what are you doing here?"

Sylvanna turned around with a guilty start, finding Wynne standing behind her with her arms folded across her chest. "I'm… doing laundry?" she managed at last.

Wynne cast a dubious eye over the pile of dirty linen. "Surely there are servants-"

"No! No," Sylvanna quickly protested, "I want to do it."

"My dear, you can't be expected to do this all," Wynne chided gently. At the elf's stubborn expression she sighed, and bent to take a pair of buckets. "If you are determined in this, then at least let me help."

"Wynne, that's very kind but you really shouldn't exert yourself-"

"Am I too old to be washing linens, now? And yet young enough to kill darkspawn?" Wynne smiled, gesturing for Sylvanna to lead the way. "I've seen the state of Alistair's socks. I couldn't leave you to that fate on your own."

"Thank you, Wynne," Sylvanna said, returning the smile as she picked up her own pair of buckets. There was a pump in the small courtyard to the back of the estate, she recalled passing it on her way.

The large pot in the laundry room filled slowly as they poured bucket after bucket into it. She never remembered it being this hard at the tower. Cullen had always been willing to carry water for her, she realised with a guilty pang, and she had taken advantage of his infatuation more than once. "_It's not as though templars are really people_," Nadine had encouraged her. He had even let her sneak by into Nadine's room, deliberately looking the other way, his face turning almost as bright as his hair as she had slipped past him with a wink. She had turned it into a cruel kind of hobby, perversely breaking more and more rules in front of him to see how far she could press him before his sense of duty overcame his idolatry. It had been a dangerous game, one that could have sent either or both of them to Aeonar if she had miscalculated and overestimated his affections.

"Poor Cullen," Sylvanna murmured. She had been more than unfair to him, and he had borne it with a kind of doomed stoicism. No wonder that he had wanted to raze the Circle, at the end.

"Cullen the templar?" Wynne asked her curiously.

Sylvanna nodded as she waved a hand, the logs under the washing pot catching alight. "He was always kind to me," she admitted, sorting the laundry into neat piles. "I never deserved it."

They worked in silence for a time, Sylvanna scrubbing painfully at a tunic using a washboard. Some of the stains... she tried not to think about it too much. "You told me you never knew your parents," she said, glancing over at Wynne. "I… remember my mother."

"Oh?" the senior enchanter inquired. "You must have been very young when you were taken to the Circle."

"I don't remember much," Sylvanna admitted. "But I know she used to work as a servant – in an estate very much like this one, I suspect."

"It is a hard life," Wynne commented, tipping soap and the rest of the laundry in the now heated water. "But so few of us chose our occupations – servant, templar, mage, or king – these roles are rarely within our power to control. It is what you do with your life that matters, Sylvanna, not how it begins," she said mildly.

"It's not fair," Sylvanna said hotly, stepping back up on the footstool to stand over the pot. The steam rising up from it felt clammy on her face, the mixture becoming sudsy as she took a long pole and began to stir.

"There really ought to be a spell for this," she grumbled irritably, her arms beginning to ache again.

"You shouldn't expect magic to be able to solve all your problems," Wynne laughed, as she began to fill the basin with clean water for rinsing.

Sylvanna sighed again, poking a shirt that had risen to the surface back down under the water. "Maybe, but is it so much to ask? Perhaps if we were to combine telekinetic force with centrifugal motion, and..."

"Please don't try it when I'm standing right here," Wynne groaned.

"I think these are ready to be rinsed," Sylvanna said eventually, using the pole to fish out a pair of pants and eyeing the lump of sodden fabric critically.

It did not take long between them to transfer the soggy, soapy, warm mass of clothes to the basin, where they began the even more arduous task of wringing out the sudsy residue and rinsing away any remaining dirt. "Thank you again," Sylvanna said as they worked, glancing over at the older woman. "I really appreciate the help, and you didn't have to offer it. This was my... problem."

"I confess, I had an ulterior motive for helping you," Wynne said, winding a shirt through the wringer.

"Oh?"

"I wished to speak with you privately. You've become quite a busy woman these days."

"I've had... things to do," Sylvanna said, blushing. She and Morrigan had been spending more time together, true... time that she had used to spend talking to her other companions.

"You're quite taken with each other, aren't you?" Wynne asked, looking at the younger mage sharply.

"I like her," Sylvanna admitted. She looked down at her work, squeezing the suds out of a pair of leggings by hand. "Is that so wrong?"

"She is a cunning woman, a maleficar. She will use you for her own ends."

Sylvanna glanced up at the senior enchanter, a pained look in her eyes. "No," she said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. "I trust Morrigan."

Wynne frowned at her. "I am telling you what I see, and what my instincts tell me. And even if the feelings you share are genuine, this affair may not be the best thing for either of you. Sylvanna," she sighed, "you are a Grey Warden. You have responsibilities which supercede your personal desires."

Sylvanna's expression darkened as she bit her lip, concentrating on pressing all the water out of a worn surcoat. "I can handle my responsibilities and my relationships," she protested.

Wynne continued on, unperturbed by the scowl she was receiving. "Love is ultimately selfish. It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one's mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love and saving everyone else, and then what would you do?"

"I would do my duty. As I have done before. As you have seen me do, before," Sylvanna said angrily. In her mind, she saw Nadine's pleading eyes, the expression on her face turning to horror as the spell impacted on her chest, the force of it causing her body to crumple like a discarded paper bag.

Wynne looked at her sadly. "It is not an easy choice to live with," she cautioned. "I simply don't want to see you hurt again, my dear."

Sylvanna turned away, preoccupying herself with the task of pegging up the damp clothes over the lines strung from end to end of the room. She rubbed at her eyes distractedly, patting over her robes in a vain search for a handkerchief.

"Here," Wynne said softly, passing her a square of cloth.

Sylvanna blew her nose, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. It was ridiculous, really; how long ago had that been now? She had made the right choice, she was sure of it. She didn't need absolution from anyone; if Morrigan could see her weakness now, she would curl her lip in scorn.

"You were not completely honest with me, back at Lake Calenhad," Wynne began carefully. "What were you and Morrigan really doing? Surely you did not risk three of your lives, in the wilderness, merely to learn spells?"

It had been a warm day, and Thetus was just having so much fun in the sunshine... "I really was trying to learn a new spell," Sylvanna said, coughing to clear her throat. "It failed, unfortunately." At Lake Calenhad, she had told Wynne that she had been trying to learn to raise the dead. What really happened was that she had failed to learn a basic shapeshifting form, and the misdirected energy caused her to lose consciousness and somehow attract the attention of a desire demon at the same time. Not that she had confessed to that last part, of course.

"I have been training apprentices too long not to recognise a tall tale when I hear one, my dear," Wynne said dryly.

Sylvanna whipped around, her hand clenching tightly around the tunic she was holding. "What do you want me to say?" she demanded. "I really was trying to learn a new spell-"

"But that's not the whole story, is it?" Wynne questioned. "Why expose yourselves to danger by heading out into the wilderness simply to practice magic? What was it that caused you to lose consciousness?"

Sylvanna breathed out slowly, concentrating on pegging the tunic on the line. When she turned back around, the senior enchanter was still there, watching her with an expectant look.

"No, it's not," Sylvanna admitted slowly. There was no getting out of the confession now that she had started. "I asked Morrigan to teach me a shapeshifting form. That's why we were so far away from the others."

Wynne's gaze was still upon her, with no change of expression on the senior enchanter's face.

"She helped me to... connect with a form; a giant spider as it turned out. I read its mind, I suppose you could say," Sylvanna continued.

"Such things are not unheard of," Wynne commented. "It requires great skill and an intimate understanding of the creature in question, however. How did you manage it?"

"Morrigan helped me," Sylvanna said evasively. No need to mention that blood magic was involved.

"And then?"

"And then I woke up at the Spoiled Princess-"

"Sylvanna," Wynne said sharply, "I am your friend. I have patched you up and set you back on your feet more times than I can count. I agreed to come with you because the entire fate of Ferelden depends on your mission." Wynne sighed, suddenly looking very old. When she glanced back to the Warden, there was a fire in her eyes that frightened Sylvanna with its intensity.

"But I cannot," Wynne went on, "and I will not help you if you continue to lie to me."

Sylvanna looked away, shamed by the elder mage's words. "I managed to connect with the creature," she said quietly at last. "But something happened. I think it resisted my intrusion, or perhaps I wasn't strong enough – I'm not sure," she admitted. "I found myself in the Fade... in the thrall of a desire demon."

"As I suspected," Wynne murmured.

"Please don't tell the others," Sylvanna begged. "When I woke up, I thought Alistair was going to kill me-"

"And he would have been well within his rights to do so, had you been possessed," Wynne retorted angrily. "What were you thinking? You know that all mages must take extra precautions to avoid the attentions of demons, and spirit healers most of all. As a Grey Warden, too many lives depend upon you for you to just risk your body and soul for - for an impetuous expedition with your maleficar lover-"

"It wasn't Morrigan's fault," Sylvanna protested angrily. "It was mine. I asked her to teach me – she warned me that it may not work-"

"And did she tell you that the price of failure was possession?" Wynne argued. "Or was that her intention all along?"

"I – excuse me?" Sylvanna asked in disbelief. "You've gone too far, Wynne," she said warningly.

"Morrigan said that she learned of Flemeth's plans to possess her own soul from her mother's grimoires. What if she was planning to use the same magic upon you? What if attracting a demon to your soul was the first step of this process?"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Sylvanna said, her hands clenching into tight fists. She felt two angry pinpoints of colour flushing her cheeks, her heart beating unnaturally fast. "Do you truly believe Morrigan capable of such evil? After all this, after what happened with Flemeth, do you really think that she would... attempt something like that?"

"I don't know what to believe any more," Wynne said coldly. "I am simply warning you to be on your guard around her."

Sylvanna took a deep breath. When she glanced back at Wynne, the look on her face chilled the senior enchanter to her bones. "If that is what you truly think of Morrigan," she said slowly, taking a step back, "then we are no longer friends."

"Sylvanna-" Wynne pleaded, but the elf had already gone, leaving behind only the hanging pieces of clothing, fluttering slightly in the breeze like oversized flags.

Suddenly, Wynne felt far older than her years.


	7. The Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A brief piece of fluff illustrating one of the more pleasant in-game moments which includes a fair bit of in-game dialogue (I wasn't originally intending to include it because of that, but it's a pretty vital scene. I never understood why Leliana is the only romance option who doesn't give the PC a gift. It seemed a bit unfair for all the Leli-lovers, especially after all that effort nug-wrangling for her).
> 
> As always, Dragon Age belongs to BioWare. We're about halfway through the story now so thanks for keeping up with it :-)

"Did you find anything in your mother's grimoire?" Sylvanna asked one night, lazily tracing her fingertips over Morrigan's back. She had grown to know the scars on the witch, the tiny blemishes that marked out the progress of her life. One line of whitened, slightly puckered flesh across the knee where she had fallen as a child, luring templars back to her mother; a darkened patch on her left shoulder, where a hurlock's poisoned arrow had entered and a corresponding spot above her breast where it had exited. She had counted another seven more, most having been gained through the course of the last year. This journey had marked them all, and largely in ways that were invisible to the naked eye.

"Yes." The witch did not turn around, instead choosing to lean into Sylvanna's touch like a lazy cat. They were half-way along the road to Denerim, making good time, or so Sylvanna thought. The days were melding into one another, passing too quickly; punctuated by the occasional raids by bandits or forays from marauding darkspawn bands. Once all this was over, Sylvanna promised herself, she would have the longest hot bath of her life and a meal prepared in a proper kitchen. Sometimes, the dream of those two luxuries put together was the only thing that kept her going.

"I believe she will not find me easy prey, should she return," Morrigan said confidently, a hint of smug satisfaction in her voice.

Sylvanna leant up, propping her elbow against the floor of the tent and balancing her head in her hand. "What do you need to do?" she asked curiously. Her inability to read Flemeth's grimoire for herself had been irritating, to say the least, and Morrigan had hardly been forthcoming, only consulting the grimoire when she had a private moment to herself. Wynne may have helped her, she supposed, perhaps seeing something in the text that Sylvanna could not, but that bridge had been well and truly burned.

"There are... certain precautions I can take," Morrigan said carefully. "Certain rituals. You need not trouble yourself; I assure you that I am perfectly capable of navigating those waters on my own."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Sylvanna asked innocently, twirling a strand of Morrigan's hair between her fingertips.

"I... no," Morrigan said cautiously, pulling away from Sylvanna and turning to face her. "But I thank you for the offer. You have already done enough for me, by slaying Flemeth," she said thoughtfully, placing a hand on top of the elf's, their fingers twining together.

"Mm." Sylvanna looked down, her thumb brushing over the callouses on the witch's hand. There were old scars there, too; a thin, faint line where a knife had slipped, preparing elfroot for poultices when Alistair had managed to interrupt her, causing Morrigan to startle and the blade to slide against her hand. She had been absolutely furious, with only Sylvanna's hasty intervention protecting the former templar from the force of her wrath.

"I have something for you," Morrigan said suddenly.

"Is it a kiss?" Sylvanna asked teasingly, leaning in towards the witch who laughingly indulged her.

"'Tis a ring." At Sylvanna's expression, she hastily continued. "Now, before you get any foolish notions, let me explain." She slipped the ring from her forefinger, the burnished wood appearing almost black in the low light. "Flemeth once gave me the ring because it allowed her to find me no matter where I went, in case I was ever captured by hunters," Morrigan explained. "I disabled its power as soon as we left the Wilds. Recently, however, I thought to change it. Now, I will be able to find whoever wears it instead."

"It's... very thoughtful of you," Sylvanna said, trying to hide her surprise. "Thank you." She took the ring from Morrigan's outstretched hand. Finding it too large for her other fingers, she slid it upon her left thumb where at least it was in no danger of falling off.

Morrigan frowned, seemingly anxious to downplay the implication of the gesture. "'Tis not given out of sentimentality," she insisted, appearing uncomfortable with Sylvanna's gratitude. "I believe you are too important to risk. If you were captured, this ring would allow the rest of us to find you quickly."

"Does it do anything else?" Sylvanna asked curiously, twisting the ring. She could feel a faint trace of energy radiating from it, barely enough to register on her senses. The Circle kept similar artefacts, objects imbued with magic jealously guarded in the Tranquils' stockrooms, but apprentices were rarely allowed to handle any but the simplest of such items.

"Flemeth used to say that 'twas a link between us, one that I presumed worked both ways," Morrigan explained. "I never tested it, but I doubt she would have lied over such a thing. So it would mean I am linked to you as much as you to I."

"So I could find you, if need be?" Sylvanna asked, the gift increasing in significance in her mind.

Morrigan looked at her hesitantly, her gaze dropping from Sylvanna's face to the ring on her hand. "I... do not know. As I said, I never tested it. Perhaps," she admitted at last.

"Thank you for the gift," Sylvanna said again, twisting the ring firmly to ensure that it would stay in place. It was the first item she had ever received from the witch, and it would be terrible if it slipped off during the heat of battle or in a carelessly passionate moment.

Morrigan nodded, somewhat curtly. "You are welcome. Perhaps it will be useful some day." She looked over at Sylvanna, an uneasy expression flickering over her face for a moment, before being replaced by her usual cool self-confidence. "I should go," she said brusquely, reaching for her clothes.

Sylvanna sighed. As much as she had tried dropping hints, even trying bribery on occasion, the witch had never actually spent the entire night with her and she had mostly given up on the hope of it now. She slid her arm around Morrigan's waist, pulling the witch to her for a goodnight kiss, her lips lingering for a moment longer than the other would have liked. "Don't let the darkspawn bite," she said in farewell.

"I would imagine that you, with the scent of the taint, are in far more danger of that fate than I," Morrigan replied with amusement, pulling her robes on over her head.

"Sleep well, Sylvanna."


	8. A Study in Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter also contains a small amount of in-game dialogue, which belongs to BioWare along with the rest of Dragon Age, and is NSFW.

"So how is your little... liaison progressing?" Zevran asked.

It was a lovely day in Denerim, the perfect time to go shopping. Leliana had promised to take Sylvanna to look for shoes, but somehow that plan had fallen by the wayside, the bard instead heading off with Oghren and a very confused Alistair in tow for what she'd termed their 'secret mission', with a giggle. Sylvanna had ended up with Zevran, of all people, and now despite her constant and increasingly desperate hints he refused to go away.

"Everything's just fine, thank you," Sylvanna replied, dreading a repeat of their last conversation on the matter, which had ended very poorly (for Sylvanna, anyway) when she had drunk herself into a stupor.

"But she is a human, no?" Zevran persisted. "There must be... complications, at times?"

"What do you mean? We have our differences, of course, but I don't think it's because she's human."

Zevran laughed quietly, earning himself a puzzled look from Sylvanna. "Perhaps I should explain myself. You have only ever been with human women, am I correct? Have you ever considered... a little variation, maybe seeing other people; like a handsome elf, perhaps?"

"Like yourself, you mean," Sylvanna said doubtfully. "I think we've been over this-"

"And the offer still stands, of course, but no – I meant any elf. Like that one over there," Zevran said, helpfully pointing out a distant figure.

Sylvanna squinted, and screwed up her nose. "I think that was a human boy," she suggested.

"Well, maybe not that one exactly, but you must understand what I mean-"

"Do you think I am a traitor to my race, then?" she asked suddenly, stopping mid-stride. They had reached the marketplace now, which was as crowded as always, the ebb and flow of traffic moving seamlessly around them.

"Hardly," Zevran scoffed. "One finds pleasure where one can, no?"

Sylvanna laughed. "Not everything is about 'pleasure', Zev."

"Isn't it?" he asked, scrutinising her closely. "I thought I heard you experiencing pleasure last night. I was mistaken, then? If you are having difficulties achieving satisfaction, perhaps I could help you with-"

"No!" Sylvanna yelled, loudly enough to attract the stares of nearby shoppers. She dropped her voice down in embarrassment, blushing furiously. "No, just - oh, just be quiet."

They had neared the centre of the markets, sidestepping small children, carts and vendors. The smell of fresh bread made Sylvanna's stomach growl, the cries of a multitude of merchants almost drowning out all conversation.

"Fine dwarven crafts! Direct from Orzammar!"

"Baked fresh! Fresh rolls and buns!"

"I could murder her buns," Zevran murmured speculatively as the baker girl swayed past them, her hips rolling from side to side.

"Is there no-one you wouldn't like to 'murder'?" Sylvanna asked despairingly. "Besides Oghren, of course."

"Simply because my tastes are more diverse than yours does not meant that I do not recognise a fine beauty when I see one," the elf protested. "Such as the lovely young lady over there," he suggested, pointing towards their reflection in a large, gilt-framed mirror.

Sylvanna sighed, nevertheless sneaking a quick peek in the mirror to make sure her hair was not in disarray. "Don't you ever give up?" she demanded.

"Of course not, my dear," Zevran laughed. "Didn't you know that we Crows are famed for our endurance and perseverance? Why, the stories I could tell you..." he trailed off, noticing that his companion had separated from him, becoming engrossed in a nearby jewellery stand.

"Do you think Morrigan would like this?" Sylvanna asked, seemingly entranced by a multi-stranded necklace, loops of gold draped over her fingertips.

Zevran sauntered up to her, seeming to consider the piece. "Perhaps... if you presented it to her by wearing nothing but the chain alone?" he suggested, from his expression clearly imagining the scene in his mind.

"Get your filthy hands off my merchandise," a voice growled from behind them. Sylvanna jerked back instinctively, dropping the chain with a guilty start. Zevran shifted his stance slightly, his posture outwardly relaxed but prepared for trouble at any moment.

"I wasn't doing anything wrong," Sylvanna protested uneasily, her eyes flicking between Zevran and the merchant who loomed over the two of them, his corpulent face split into a dour frown.

"You knife-ears need to leave my store before I call the guards," the merchant scowled. "You're scaring off paying customers."

"My dear man, do you realise who you are talking to?" Zevran asked incredulously, one hand slipping casually to the hilt of his blade. "This is-"

"Shh," Sylvanna said, placing her hand over Zevran's. "It's not worth it," she told the assassin, her eyes warning him to back down. "We're going."

"Good riddance to the both of you," the merchant said gruffly, eyeing the both of them like a hawk as they exited his store, hovering protectively over his wares like a mother hen.

They slipped back into the general hum and flow of the marketplace, Sylvanna's cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. She should not have let an ignorant stranger like that get to her, she knew, but the insult still stung, like a splash of ice water to the face on a cold morning.

"Look over there, my dear," Zevran murmured, taking her arm and pointing to another stand. "Wouldn't those look lovely on Leliana?"

"I suppose," Sylvanna said doubtfully, sure that the elf was only trying to distract her. She considered the pair of shoes, a pale grey suede with slight, stacked wooden heels. She was not entirely convinced; they seemed a little too practical for the glamour-loving bard. "I'm not sure-" she began, looking around for the assassin, but he seemed to have vanished. "Zev?" she asked uncertainly, scanning the crowded marketplace.

Sylvanna jumped as she felt something touch her arm, but it was only Zevran. He seemed slightly tense, and she stiffened automatically in response, her eyes scanning the crowd for danger. "What-" she began, before he hushed her, a flash of metal gleaming between his fingers as he tucked the necklace away and out of sight. "Zevran," she scolded despairingly.

"I may have been a little careless," the assassin said apologetically. "In fact... it may be a good idea if we were on our way. Right about now."

"You – what?" Sylvanna asked in confusion.

"Run!"

She caught a glimpse of the merchant, red-faced and yelling, before Zevran pulled them away, back through the throngs of busy shoppers. They slipped easily through the crowd, the shouting growing dimmer and dimmer as they ducked into a side alley, far from the noise of pursuit.

"You really shouldn't have," Sylvanna admonished as she caught her breath, the rebuke ruined a little by the grin on her face. "But... thank you." She held out a hand for the chain, but the necklace had vanished, the assassin holding both his hands up to show that they were empty.

"A good deed deserves a reward, yes?" he suggested hopefully. "Perhaps a kiss from the beautiful Grey Warden?"

Sylvanna laughed, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "How about I don't shrivel up your manhood so that it withers and drops off, and we call it even?"

"You can do that?" Zevran asked doubtfully. At the mage's expression, he sighed, as he fished out the chain and handed it over. "You are an evil woman, my dear."

Sylvanna laughed, admiring the strands of gold dangling through her fingertips. "I try. Thank you," she said again, turning to him.

Zevran shrugged modestly. "I was glad to play my part. I have not heard you laughing for some time now. A woman like yourself should smile more often." He leaned closer. "Frowning prematurely ages the face, you know," he added in a conspiratorial whisper.

Sylvanna put a hand to her face, wearing an expression of mock-horror. "Are you saying I have wrinkles?" she demanded.

"Well…" he began, observing her thoughtfully.

"You liar!" Sylvanna laughed, running her eyes over him. "You're not getting any younger yourself. Come on - it's time we caught up with the others," she ordered, leading the way back into the heart of Denerim.

.

.

.

It was quiet, back at camp; Thetus was relaxing happily with Leliana, who was being uncommonly generous with her backrubs, Zevran was coating his daggers with a noxious looking fluid and Sten was cleaning his armour, a look of intense concentration on his face.

Sylvanna crossed to the other side of camp, avoiding Wynne on the way. They had not been on speaking terms since the affair at Redcliffe Castle, communicating only essential orders and coldly polite greetings. Alistair, in particular seemed upset about it, but Sylvanna had brushed off his concern with hardly a second glance.

Morrigan was warming her hands by the small fire she always built, near but separate to the others. "Here," Sylvanna said as she approached the witch, opening her palm to reveal the necklace. "I picked this up for you today. Well, Zev and I did, really."

Morrigan looked up, her eyes flicking over the piece of jewellery. "It's lovely," she said, uncertainly.

"You'll have to try it on to see," Sylvanna said, unclasping the chain. Walking around the witch, she stood on tip toes and pressed her lips against the back of Morrigan's neck. "We were chased by guards, just for this chain," she murmured, planting a row of kisses before she hooked up the clasp. "It was very dangerous," she confessed, her hands hovering lower down Morrigan's body.

The witch stepped away from her, disentangling herself from Sylvanna's grasp. "I cannot," she protested. "The... lunar cycle prevents me."

Sylvanna looked upwards, perplexed. "The moon is waxing," she said helpfully. At Morrigan's expression, she considered the witch again, sounding confused. "Oh – you mean – oh. It's only been two weeks since the last time – hasn't it? What's actually going on here, Morrigan?" she asked in a concerned voice. "Are you injured? You were awfully quiet after that last fight," she said, trying to take Morrigan's hands, but the witch evaded her touch.

"I am perfectly well," she snapped at last, avoiding Sylvanna's gaze. The elf stared at her, dismayed at her apparent poor humour. Morrigan glanced down, fingering the strands of gold chain that glimmered in the firelight. At last she turned back, fixing the Warden with a pointed look. "Tell me, Sylvanna, what is your opinion of 'love'?" she asked.

"My opinion?" the elf echoed, bewildered by the question.

"We have been... close... for some time now," Morrigan began, haltingly. "You are... not entirely without talent, and you even protected me from Flemeth without hope of reward. I feel anxious when I look upon you," she confessed, glaring at the fire as though it held the secrets to curing her emotions. "I dislike this sense of dependency. 'Tis a weakness I abhor. If this is 'love,' I wish to ascertain that you do not feel the same."

Sylvanna took a step closer to her, more confused than ever. "Are you... saying that you love me?" she ventured at last, a vague sense of unease growing upon her.

"No, that's... not what I'm saying. You need to pay attention," Morrigan ordered, glancing away from her. "What I am saying is that I have been foolish. I have allowed myself to become... too close. This is a weakness."

"It's not a weakness, Morrigan," Sylvanna protested, reaching out towards her.

The witch flinched away from her, taking a step backwards. "You are not listening to me," she snapped, her eyes smouldering. "Do not be such a fool! This is for your own good. I would not... I am not like other women. I am not worth your distraction. And you... are not worth mine."

Sylvanna stared into the fire, tiny pinpricks burning in the corners of her eyes. "You are worth my distraction," she said, quietly.

"I.. you are impossible," Morrigan sighed. "Have it your way."

Sylvanna turned to her, seeking to mend whatever bridge she had inadvertently burned, but Morrigan was already stalking away, the discussion clearly over. Troubled, Sylvanna returned to her own tent, speaking to no one along the way, not even glancing up when Leliana called to her in a concerned voice. Thetus met her at the edge of the camp, whining plaintively, but she ignored him, firmly tying the tent openings behind her with her anxious dog left outside.

She stayed awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling of her tent. The last time she had seen Morrigan so... unsure of herself, it had been directly after returning from slaying Flemeth. It was also shortly prior to the first time they had kissed, and the first time they had done... other things. She rolled onto her side, curling her knees to her chest, the faint sound of Thetus' unhappy snuffling still audible from inside the tent. Had she done anything to provoke the witch? Perhaps she had been trying too hard, appearing to be purchasing her affection with gifts. But she had given her so many gifts – and to her other companions also, and never provoked such a reaction before.

Sleep was welcome, when it came at last; dissolving all her worries into the endless grey morass of the Fade, free from witches and their troubling emotional responses that haunted her thoughts.

.

.

.

She awoke to a noise, her body tensing for action. She reached for her staff, blindly, seeking out the feeling of darkspawn, but there was only the faint trace of the taint from Alistair, some distance away, and then nothing. Suddenly, a hand pressed tightly over her mouth, suppressing any sound she might have made. She struggled instinctively, before her eyes adjusted, recognising the dark shape above her as Morrigan's. She relaxed slightly and took a deep breath as the hand was removed.

"What are you-"

"No talking," Morrigan ordered. She was already naked, Sylvanna realised confusedly. There was some visibility within the tent, as the material it was made from was not light-proof and the fire that Alistair and Shale had built was still burning high a scant couple of yards away. She could not have been sleeping for very long as it was still night outside, the air quiet and still.

"Please-" Sylvanna tried again, but the witch had other ideas, grabbing the edge of Sylvanna's chemise and hiking it up so that the material covered her mouth and face, smothering any further words she may have managed. She struggled with it briefly, before managing to come free of the garment.

"Can you not be quiet for the sake of one hour?" Morrigan demanded bitterly, before she silenced any further protests with a kiss. She was not gentle, her teeth drawing blood and as she pulled back, Sylvanna could see traces of it staining her lips.

"This is just so sudden," the elf gasped, as she was pushed back onto the sheets, her face pressed firmly into the pillow. Morrigan took the opportunity to divest her of the rest of her small clothes, efficiently ruthless. Sylvanna thought she could hear the sound of cloth tearing.

"Be quiet, Sylvanna," the witch said warningly, her fingernails digging the elf's skin as they raked down her back. The elf gasped, twisting her body back to face Morrigan, who was looming over her in the darkness. She bent down for another kiss, and Sylvanna arched her body to meet her, burning with need and desire.

The witch was brutally callous with her and she revelled in every moment of it. She tried to speak, again, but Morrigan covered her mouth with one hand and she obediently quietened, taking between her lips a few of the witch's slim fingers, drawing across them with her tongue and gently sucking upon them as if they were Orlesian candy. Morrigan chuckled quietly at her, throwing her back down onto the bed, her hand wound insistently into Sylvanna's hair as she directed the elf wordlessly.

There was no more talking; only Sylvanna's faint gasps of pleasure or pain and Morrigan's stony, relentless silence. It was somewhat unnerving, Sylvanna thought, staring up at the witch's carefully controlled face as her own body betrayed her with its desperate longing, inviting Morrigan further into her. It was not the silence so much as the look in her eyes, self-loathing warring with a brutal hunger that would haunt Sylvanna in her dreams to come.

When the witch was finally done with her, Sylvanna was breathless, her heart pounding with an anxious thudding that she tried desperately to quell, afraid that the other could hear it and not wishing to break this precarious silence. She glanced over, fearfully, expecting her to leave but needing her to stay.

Morrigan was silent, looking away from her as she lay apart with her back to Sylvanna. Her long, unbound hair covered much of her face and shoulders, her expression unreadable in the poor light.

There were so many questions bursting on the edge of Sylvanna's tongue but she stayed quiet, pushing them back down her throat and swallowing them for good. '_Love_'. The word had sounded so strange from Morrigan's lips, foreign and sweet and causing a tightening in her chest that she never thought to experience again. Until Wynne had cornered her, she had never realised how much she cared about what others thought about Morrigan, how much she had grown to like, perhaps even adore, the apostate mage.

Her body ached; there were a couple of bruises she thought she would need to heal before daybreak, lest anyone see. She shifted, uncomfortably and Morrigan flinched, causing Sylvanna to freeze in place, hoping that maybe if she stayed still, the witch would not move and leave her.

"You are a foolish girl," Morrigan told her at last, turning to face Sylvanna. Her golden eyes were watching her carefully, taking in her ruffled hair, the bruises down her neck and breasts, the hint of blood on her lips. She leaned in, demanding a kiss and Sylvanna relented, her hands wandering down Morrigan's body lightly, terrified that the witch would pull back from her and flee.

Morrigan drew her close, their noses almost touching in the near-dark.

"I will tell you truly now: you will regret it in the end," the witch warned her. Sylvanna said nothing for once, letting her hand slide down between Morrigan's breasts until they reached the golden strands of twisted chain that she had gifted earlier that evening. She wrapped the strands around her fingertips, using it to hold Morrigan close to her and bent her lips to the witch's breast, circling the nipple with her tongue before taking its warm peak into her mouth.

The warning echoed ominously in her mind, but at that moment Sylvanna absolutely, positively did not care.


	9. The Dalish Encampment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter also contains a small amount of in-game dialogue, which belongs to BioWare along with the rest of Dragon Age.

"The Dalish do not keep their mages locked away in towers."

"Hmm?"

They were trailing slightly behind the others. Morrigan was in front, leading their small party through the woods as her sense of direction and knowledge of the Wilds served her best in this strange, eerily quiet forest. Wynne and several others had broken off from the main group to search for Aneirin, with the promise of meeting back at the Dalish camp later on. The senior enchanter had been slightly surprised when Sylvanna approached her, giving leave for the search to occur. It had been some time ago when Wynne confessed to the disappointing mismanagement of her apprentice, and she had assumed that since their argument, the Grey Warden had all but forgotten about her quest.

"Dalish magic users," Sylvanna explained. "They remain with their families, their people; they can even become Keepers and... can marry and have families of their own. No templars, no harrowings, no phylacteries, no robbing babies from their mothers; they... may live as normal people live," she said, her voice taking a wistful turn.

Alistair sighed, swiping at a bug that was hovering around his face. "Where are you going with this?" he asked, not unkindly. It had been a tiring morning; the woods seemed to go on forever, each tree looking very much like the last (except for the ones that had tried to kill them, of course). He was starting to feel hungry, the morning meal of thin gruel and some kind of elven bread long since forgotten by his stomach, which was complaining loudly.

"Why can't other mages live like that?" Sylvanna demanded, stabbing her staff viciously into the dirt as she walked. She had been in a dark mood all morning, snapping at anyone who dared glance at her the wrong way, even having no patience for Thetus, who was overly excited about the chance to explore a new forest, werewolf-ridden or no. She had thrown a poultice at Zevran's head, demanding that he heal himself when the assassin made some overly intimate suggestion about what else her hands could be doing as she redressed a bandage; a comment that she would have otherwise laughed away on one of her better days.

"Because... the Chantry would never allow it?" Alistair suggested, hoping it was the right answer. He was nursing a headache as one of those damnable trees with their Maker-forsaken roots had thwacked him right in the side of his face, and the last thing he wanted was to provoke the mage into throwing something else at him, too.

"Exactly," Sylvanna said furiously, brushing aside an overhanging vine with far more force than was necessary. "If the Chantry wasn't so strict with us, the rebellion with Uldred could never have happened. There would be no need for it. There wouldn't be any hunting of apostates, normal people wouldn't be so afraid of us because we'd be living with them, among them, we'd be... accepted."

_It would be the Tevinter Imperium all over again, _Alistair thought grimly. _Magister lords, slavery, blood __mages running wild in the streets._ Aloud, he commented, "yes, well, I'll just march right up to the Divine in Val Royeaux and request she decree that all mages are now exempt from Chantry control, shall I?"

Sylvanna turned and shot him a glance filled with venom. "This isn't something to laugh about, Alistair," she said tersely. "People's lives are affected."

"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?" he asked irritably, and with good reason, he thought. "Grey Wardens are supposed to be politically neutral, remember?"

"Mm." Sylvanna stared at the ground straight ahead of them, her staff tapping rhythmically into the dirt as they walked. She had her thinking face on. He didn't like that face; it usually led to Bad Ideas, like 'Alistair, why don't you walk out alone into the middle of that angry horde of darkspawn, and we'll drop a blizzard on top of you?' or 'Alistair, I'm sure that mushroom looks edible, why don't you give it a try?'

"You're thinking thinky thoughts," he said accusingly. "I can tell."

"Perhaps," Sylvanna said distractedly, watching as Morrigan disappeared over a slight incline in the terrain ahead. "Let's catch up to the others," she said, already racing away from him.

"Wait for me!" Alistair called out plaintively, cursing the heavy greaves he wore as he struggled to catch up. "That woman will be the death of me," he muttered.

.

.

.

"The song you sang... it was beautiful."

"Thank you," Leliana said, turning to Sylvanna with a smile. "It is one of my favourites."

They had camped slightly apart from the Dalish, the elves' fires visible only a short distance away. The forest seemed... safer, less foreboding since Witherfang had been put to peace at last and the werewolf curse was now lifted. Sylvanna was still reeling from the discovery of the ancient elven spirit – mages wearing plate armour, and even wielding swords? It seemed impossible!

"What did it mean?" Sylvanna asked curiously, recognising the lilt of the words but not their significance.

"It – oh, I forgot you grew up in a Circle," Leliana said, looking at her sympathy. "The elven tongue is more common in Orlais."

_It wouldn't have made any difference, growing up in the Alienage_, Sylvanna thought. Denerim elves had as much knowledge of their mother tongue as those who were given to the Circle, and even the Dalish they had encountered seemed to have lost much of their language.

"It was about the inevitability of loss," Leliana continued, her expression thoughtful, "about mourning those we loved by rejoicing in the time we have left with one another."

"Very fitting, considering our circumstances." With all their treaties fulfilled at last, they would begin the march to Redcliffe on the morrow, to meet with Arl Eamon and establish their next course of action. One way or another, the journey was coming to a close.

"Yes." The bard seemed to be in a pensive mood, her tone serious when she turned back to Sylvanna. "Is something wrong?" she asked cautiously, looking at the elf with concern. "You and Morrigan have been avoiding each other, haven't you?"

Sylvanna laughed nervously, her eyes darting to the other, smaller fire at the far side of the camp. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well, it is a little hard to hide these things from your friends," Leliana admitted. "And I am a bard, after all."

Sylvanna sighed. Perhaps it was for the best. It would feel good to unburden herself though, to admit her feelings, and who would understand them better than Leliana? "She told me... she said she feels 'anxious' around me. What does that mean?" Sylvanna demanded, her glance flicking to the other side of the camp with a worried expression on her face.

"You and I have both been betrayed by those we cared for," Leliana said, her hands smoothing over the intricate carvings etched into her bow. "Perhaps she... fears the same fate?"

"Do you think she really cares about me?" Sylvanna asked uncertainly, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "I'm not so sure."

"There is a... softness, in her gaze, when she looks upon you," the bard said earnestly. "And she... gave you that present, did she not?"

Sylvanna glanced down at the ring on her left thumb, twisting it slightly. "I suppose," she said doubtfully. She stared at the dark wood grain swirling around the narrow band, as if it held the answer to her problems. Morrigan had seemed unsure as to whether the ring truly did allow two-way communication, and so far Sylvanna had been unable to activate any of its powers, as far as she could tell. Perhaps Morrigan had deliberately disabled that function, but then why give her the ring at all? It was perplexing.

"We haven't... for a week," Sylvanna said evasively. At the bard's curious glance, she sighed. There was no way around it, and she desperately needed advice. "She hasn't accepted any invitations to my tent for over a week," she elaborated.

Leliana was polite enough to look surprised, but Sylvanna knew her companions too well to assume that they wouldn't be talking behind her back. "Everyone knows, huh?" she asked dryly.

"Well, it is a very small camp," Leliana said, slightly uncomfortably. "And you are somewhat... loud."

"I am not-" Sylvanna bit off her protest, her cheeks flushing red. "Fine." She pinched the bridge of her nose, breathing out slowly. There had always been a modicum of privacy in the Circle, thick stone walls and scheduling arrangements with dorm mates saw to that. This whole camping out in the wilderness thing was so... uncivilised.

"What do you think I should do?" she asked plaintively. "She seems almost... angry, but not, at the same time. I can't get her to talk seriously to me. I don't think I've done anything – I don't remember doing anything, anyway. Have I done something?" she asked, a pleading look in her eyes as she turned to Leliana.

"Women like Morrigan use sex as a form of manipulation, as a weapon," Leliana said evenly, her face dark as she glanced to the distant figure standing at the other side of the camp. "Perhaps it's not such a bad thing if she is... abstaining? It may mean that she has deeper feelings for you."

"I'm aware that her past was... complicated," Sylvanna admitted, a bitter taste in her mouth. Even had Flemeth not turned out to be an evil body snatching fiend, she probably would have killed her willingly; no one should expose a child to the kind of horrors Morrigan had experienced. "I thought – hoped – that because I'm also a woman, it could be different between us."

"Perhaps," Leliana conceded, sounding sceptical. "People do not change easily, however." She sighed, looking at the elven Warden with something close to pity. "I'm not sure what to say to you, Sylvanna. What do you desire from the relationship? Do you truly love her?"

"Morrigan believes love is a weakness," Sylvanna said dully, staring across into the fire.

"That may be so, but what do you believe?" the bard asked, her gaze penetrating. "You have known love before. You have a streak of romance in your soul, I can tell."

"Do you still believe in romance?" Sylvanna demanded. "What happened with Marjolaine – doesn't that make you doubt whether love is really worth the heartache?"

"No!" Leliana said, almost angrily. "I'm... sad about what happened, yes, but that doesn't mean that I do not hope to love in the future, or cherish the memories we shared before... before she changed. You too should not give up on love, simply because you are afraid of being hurt. That is... that is a cowardly way to live."

Sylvanna accepted the rebuke in silence, repetitively twisting the ring on her hand over and over. "Do you truly think we could have a future, though?" she asked finally. "An apostate – a maleficar, even, and a Circle mage who's also a Grey Warden? I just don't see it," she admitted, watching flecks of ashes from the fire drift upwards, disappearing into the night sky.

"You two are very different women," Leliana conceded. "Perhaps that gives your relationship strength, but perhaps it may also cause you trouble in the future." She sighed and leaned over, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind the elf's ear. "It is something of a miracle itself, that you have found... comfort during these harsh times. It is a thing to be cherished, no? Perhaps it is folly to wish for more."

Sylvanna looked over at her, biting her lip. "I didn't expect that sentiment from you," she confessed. "You think I should... enjoy this while it lasts, then? Is that all I should hope for?"

"These are strange times," Leliana said gently. "It has brought us all together – we who were strangers, once, now comrades, even friends. But after the Blight... after this is done," she corrected herself, omitting the possibility of failure, "who knows where we will be?"

"I would follow her," Sylvanna said suddenly, the words surprising her even as she spoke them. "If she'd have me."

"Truly?" Leliana sounded surprised, almost a little alarmed. "You must care for her dearly."

"Perhaps... perhaps I do," Sylvanna admitted slowly, the sentiment sitting uncomfortably on her tongue. It had not always been that way, of course. If she could trace it back to one thing, it would have probably started in the village of Haven; such a dreary, sleepy town. She had been pestering Morrigan about a certain spell sequence she had read about, long ago, and they'd had the perfect tactical opportunity to try it at last. It had been incredible; a swirling tornado of wind and lightning raining down on the hapless cultists, their bodies caught in place from the force of it like twitching, writhing mannequins. She had met Morrigan's eyes over the storm and the witch had smiled back at her, sharing a dark, savage joy in the death they had wreaked. That night, they had made love with a furious intensity, the taste of magic still fresh on their tongues, the thrill of victory heightening their desires to an almost unbearable peak.

"I never asked for this," she told Leliana, somewhat defensively. "I'm not like Alistair. I was grateful to Duncan for saving me, but..." she thought of the Joining, of Jory; of how betrayed she had felt when she had learned of the other side effects of the taint. "When this is over, that's it. Slaying the archdemon, ending the Blight... that's all anyone could ask, isn't it?" she said, almost pleadingly.

Leliana did not speak for a long while, her hands lovingly curled around the bow in her lap. Sylvanna remembered it well, the day they had found it; taking it from Marjolaine's house as they had left behind her dead body, with nary a final rite nor prayer. "That is... unlike you," the bard said at last, picking her words carefully. "I – I hope that no matter what path you choose, that you will find happiness; I really do." Leliana sighed, looking across the fire to Wynne's tent, a dark shape just beyond the edge of the light. If she had any accusations or further advice to offer she swallowed them, choosing to avoid the delicate subject of combining love and duty in the same breath.

"You are dear to me, Sylvanna. I just don't want to see you getting hurt," she said at last, her words echoing Wynne's sentiments from so long ago.

Sylvanna looked up at the bard curiously, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You and Wynne are always so worried about my feelings," she began. "Isn't anyone worried about Morrigan's feelings? Do you two even believe that she has feelings?"

Leliana looked affronted. "Well-"

"Never mind, I'm about to find out," Sylvanna said as she stood up, brushing the dirt from her knees, her limbs cramped from sitting in one position for so long.

"Where are you going?" Leliana asked worriedly.

"I'm... going to speak with Morrigan."

.

.

.

She had been here so many times before. Not this exact place, of course; this was the first night they had camped on the edge of the Dalish enclave, but... here, in this space, preparing herself mentally to speak with the witch.

She was more than that, however; she was Morrigan: an apostate and a maleficar, of all things, a deadly force on the battlefield, an unexpected friend, and a blisteringly passionate lover. She was all that and more; a mystery, her caustic exterior only broken by a few isolated, unguarded moments that proved even more endearing for their rarity. By all the Chantry's teachings, she should not be permitted to exist – the daughter of an abomination, a self-confessed killer of templars who nevertheless was here now, doing her best with Ferelden's last remaining Grey Wardens to end the Blight.

Morrigan looked up as she approached, her eyes wary.

"I'd like to discuss us," Sylvanna began.

"Discuss away," the witch said wearily, a tinge of resignation in her voice.

Sylvanna walked over to the witch's fire, as if the warmth from it could lend her courage. The heated air caused Morrigan's outline to flicker as if she were merely a figment or a vision, and not flesh and blood at all. "Before, you asked me if I... desired more than friendship," Sylvanna began, hesitantly. "I am finding that I... do. Desire more." She glanced up at Morrigan, seeing the flames of the fire between them reflected in her eyes. "I wish to know if such a thing is possible between us."

Morrigan shrugged elegantly, immediately dismissing the notion. "You already know my opinion on the matter. Why bother me now with such a foolish question?"

"I have... feelings, for you," Sylvanna confessed at last. "Perhaps I have even... grown to love you," she admitted, dreading the consequences of her disclosure, but needing to make it known lest it fester, bottled up inside her.

Morrigan laughed, bitterly. When she glanced down at Sylvanna, there was a sneer on her face. "Did you anticipate that I would reciprocate your foolish sentiment? We have been travelling together for too long, you and I, for you to believe me capable of such a... feeble affectation." She began to walk towards Sylvanna, circling around the fire, her leather skirt swaying with every step.

"Indeed, I am horrified to hear such words coming from your lips," Morrigan declared, staring coldly at the Warden. "After all, you slaughtered your former lover. Am I to expect the same fate, as a consequence of being the subject of your affections? Should I anticipate my throat to be cut, perhaps, while I lay sleeping? 'Tis only fair you warn me now, if that is the path you are destined to follow. I only suggest that you do not recruit the Antivan to do your handiwork – he has proved unreliable in these matters so far. You may find other uses for him now, I suspect..."

Sylvanna took a step backwards. She was accustomed to the witch's barbs, having been the recipient of them more than once, but that did not mean that they had lost the power to wound her. "I don't want to hurt you, Morrigan," she protested, holding her hands up in a supplication for peace.

"Yes you do," the witch accused her angrily, before dropping her voice to a horrified whisper, "and I – I want it, too. That is not right, is it," she demanded, almost pleading now, "that is not how a normal woman acts – I can see it in your eyes."

"That is precisely how a normal woman acts," Sylvanna explained anxiously. "We desire things that are impossible – improbable; that subvert our sense of everything that is right," she said, unsure now of whether she was talking of Morrigan or of herself. "But I promise you – I am worth that chance. Please, Morrigan," she begged, but the witch stepped away from her as if she were Flemeth incarnate herself.

"No," Morrigan said decisively, cutting off the elf before she could add further arguments to her plea. "This... flirtation must end here. Tonight." Her voice trembling, the witch looked away for a moment to regain her composure. "It will make it... easier... in the end, trust me."

"Is this... truly what you want?" Sylvanna asked, incredulously. "You can't want this – I can tell-"

"This is how it should be," Morrigan insisted angrily. "Do not be a fool, Sylvanna. You have your duty-" she spat the word like a curse, "-and I... I can no longer afford to indulge in this... diversion."

Sylvanna stared into the fire, the heat causing her eyes to water. What in Andraste's name was she thinking? She knew that Morrigan abhorred 'love', saw it as a weakness; she knew this, and yet she opened her stupid mouth anyway. If she could take back her thoughtless comments, she would; if she could take them back to a time where everything was less... complicated, she would; but no spell nor potion could give her what she desired most.

"You are truly decided," Sylvanna said quietly, hoping against hope for the witch to contradict her, but knowing in her heart that she would not.

"Indeed."

The single word cut Sylvanna to the bone, all feelings of hope evaporating for good. She blinked angrily, taking a deep breath. She would be damned if she let the witch see her come undone; not now, not like this.

"Here," she said, twisting the ring from her thumb, her movements made clumsy by the trembling in her hand. She placed it in her palm, holding it out towards Morrigan.

The witch stared at it as if it were a hot coal. "Keep it," she said unexpectedly, furling Sylvanna's fingers back over the ring. "It may prove of use in the future."

Sylvanna nodded, a lump forming in her throat. She reached behind her head, unclasping the necklace that she wore and threaded the ring onto it, before putting the necklace back on. She had opened her heart to the witch, defended her against Wynne's accusations, and for what? To be... dropped humiliatingly at the first signs of emotion? _I should have known this from the start_, she thought bitterly.

"You will not regret this," Morrigan told her, her voice seeming to come from far away. "'Tis the most sensible course of action. For both of us." She turned her back to Sylvanna, a clear dismissal.

"Now leave me. Enough time has been wasted in idle chatter, and we both have much work to do."


	10. Fist of a Nation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter contains implicit rape and depictions of violence/brutality. The following four chapters also have references to rape.

"I am sorry," Morrigan said.

The words were so alien, so uncharacteristic that for a moment Sylvanna did not believe her ears.

And yet, she had to believe them, because as strange as they were, the events leading up to Morrigan's admission had been even stranger.

.

.

.

"Two elves, a dwarf and a human woman… this sounds more like a bad joke," Sylvanna muttered, fumbling with the buckles on her armour. She looked at her team in dismay, with their ill-fitted suits and helmets (where did they even find that set for Oghren?) The only one who looked vaguely believable was Leliana, who filled out her breastplate quite nicely. Sylvanna felt a twinge of guilt; the look Morrigan had given when she had picked Leliana over her for this assignment had been cold, at best.

_It was her own damned fault_.

She had gone over their last conversation millions of times in her mind, imaging scenarios, rewriting events so that sometimes it was she who ended the relationship, not Morrigan, or where Morrigan recanted her words and begged her forgiveness, or where they simply stopped talking and escaped to the uncomplicated safety of Morrigan's tent. All of that paled in comparison, however, with the harsh light of reality.

None of them had approached her, not even Wynne to deliver a well-earned 'I told you so.' Even Leliana had kept her distance, once Sylvanna had snapped at her that there was nothing to talk about.

She tried not to think about it, going through the motions of eating, sleeping, killing; late nights spent discussing strategy with Alistair, heads bent over piles of maps, plotting routes and schedules. There was more than enough distraction available, and yet if she was not careful, she would catch a glimpse of Morrigan out of the corner of her eye, or feel the slight indent of the ring pressed hard against her chest, and her heart would break all over again.

"This will never work," she said aloud.

"It must," Erlina insisted. "My mistress's life depends on it."

And strangely enough, it did work – for a time.

.

.

.

Ser Cauthrien was a beast, and her archers were like death incarnate.

They fell back to one of the smaller rooms, but the woman was a one-person tornado, destroying everything in her path in a whirlwind of steel. Oghren called out for healing, again, but she was down to her last reserves and could hardly reach him in time, hastily freezing a group of soldiers before they tore Leliana to shreds. Zevran fell next, collapsing in a convincing heap that she could only pray was feigned. And then Ser Cauthrien was in front of her, the woman's expression a mask of concentration as she slammed the pommel of her blade into the side of Sylvanna's face.

.

.

.

She woke into a nightmare.

At first she thought they had brought her back to the dungeons in the Arl of Denerim's estate, but this room was unfamiliar to her, although the accoutrements of torture were much the same. Her face ached and throbbed with a horrible sensation, and she reached up automatically to heal it before realising that she had used the last of her magic in the fight with Cauthrien.

She was lying on a stone floor, the cold radiating into her bones as she struggled to rise, her limbs shaking with fatigue. She was unbound, she was surprised to note, but there were guards watching her cautiously – six, she counted, looking around. Their stern faces betrayed a mixture of emotions – disgust, hatred, perhaps even a flicker of fear. They were grouped tightly enough that she could have taken them, easily, purchased herself precious moments to flee... if only she had the strength to cast a spell; any spell.

"Shouldn't we kill her?" a guard suggested. "She's a mage, isn't she? I saw one take out three mercs once before he got his head chopped off."

"If she was still dangerous, she'd done something by now." Another guard walked over to her, staring down at her without a trace of fear in his eyes. Suddenly he lashed out, his boot connecting with her shoulder as she twisted to one side to escape the worst of the blow, crying out in pain as she clutched at the site of impact.

"See? Harmless as a kitten."

She reached again, searching for the dregs of magic, anything, and felt nothing inside her.

.

.

.

The first time she had felt this drained, they had only been sparring.

She had asked Alistair exactly how much templar training he had received, to take his mind off the horror that was Ostagar and he had obliged, equally eager to put the past behind him. Morrigan had stood on the fringes, watching with no small amount of amusement as the former templar brought down the wrath of the Maker on Sylvanna with one easy blow.

The impact had knocked her cleanly off her feet, the pain rendering her immobile for precious moments. But worse than that was the aching hollowness where once power resided, the impossibility of feeling nothing where there once was the reassuring hum and warmth of magic. Despite his buffoonish demeanour, Alistair could kill her in seconds if he ever caught her unawares.

Since then, she had been cautious on the battlefield, interspersing strings of spells with bolts from her staff and saving her energies for the most precarious situations, the most life-threatening wounds, to avoid the feeling of nothing, of powerlessness, that happened when she drained herself past breaking point.

.

.

.

"I guess you're right," the first guard said, a trace of disbelief in his voice. Made bold by his comrade's example, he followed suit, the blow catching Sylvanna in the small of her back. She bit her tongue to avoid screaming, tasting the taint of blood in her mouth as she closed her eyes, drawing on all her reserves of discipline to ignore the pain, to let it wash over her like a gentle wave.

.

.

.

"A mage without mana is a dead mage," Wynne had lectured.

The night air had been calm, the waters of Lake Calenhad like a smooth pane of glass. Looking at the tower from the outside, there had been nothing to betray the horror and chaos that had reigned within, nothing to indicate that it had been overrun with abominations and demons or that it was still filled with the corpses of both mages and templars alike.

"But a powerful spell can take enemies down much faster than several weak ones," Sylvanna had countered. "A swift death negates the need for large mana reserves."

"As a healer, dealing death is hardly your priority on the battlefield."

Sylvanna had sighed, privately wondering if the boat ride from the tower could possibly get any longer. A lecture was not exactly what she had been counting on when she had told the senior enchanter that they could use her skills. "Sometimes it's what the situation requires. I can't just run around patching up people all the time."

"Your powers need to be balanced," Wynne had persisted, blind to Sylvanna's irritation or simply choosing to ignore it. "A little more discipline and greater focus on retaining mana will make you a better mage."

Then Wynne had started to nag Sylvanna about what she perceived to be her 'lyrium addiction,' and the conversation rapidly went downhill from there.

.

.

.

_I guess you were right, old woman,_ Sylvanna thought to herself. _I only wish I had taken your advice. _She could not avoid screaming as a boot connected with her head, impacting against the wound that Cauthrien had caused at the end of that fight. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she drew back into herself, forcing her body to remember a time when physical pain was a distant thing of the future.

.

.

.

The first time she had been exposed to military brutality, she was only six.

It had been getting late, the summer sun already dipping low past the horizon. But Sylvanna was not worried. Mama was often late; it took her a long time to walk all the way from the grand mansion where she worked back to the Alienage. (At least it always sounded like a mansion; rooms upon rooms, more than one room for each person, and even a room for the dogs! Imagine!)

She sat down in the dirt at the front of their tiny shack, watching the other children playing in the street. She recognised them all: Jarlath, who lived next door and pulled her hair until it hurt, Kallian, who was always kind to her and let her sneak into the house that she shared with her father on the empty nights when Mama did not come home at all. And there were Kallian's cousins, Shianni and Soris, who tolerated her with the cool sophistication of children who were both older and bigger than her and knew it.

"Sylvanna Surana," Jarlath taunted in a sing-song voice. "Your mother too busy whoring to come back for dinner?" he sneered, running up to her. He had an ugly face, she decided, smattered with too many freckles, the nose crooked from a break that never quite mended right.

"Don't you say that about her," Sylvanna said, getting to her feet. "Your mama left you for another daddy because she couldn't stand the sight of you. Now she probably has another son she loves more than you-"

There was a sharp crack, and Sylvanna put a hand to her face, tasting blood in her mouth. Her cheek stung from the impact where the boy had slapped her.

"Break it up, you two," Kallian ordered, running towards the both of them. She turned to Jarlath, grabbing the collar of his shirt. "Did you hit her?" she demanded.

"She started it," he mumbled, sullenly looking away from the angry girl.

"Get back inside your houses, both of you," Kallian said. "It's too dark to be outside. That means you too, Sylvanna," she shouted, but she had already sprinted off, heading towards a familiar shape down the road.

"Mama!" Sylvanna said, reaching for her mother's hand.

"What are you doing out at this hour?" her mother chided, shooing her away. "Get back in the house this instant - that's an order."

"What are shems doing here, Mama?" Sylvanna asked, staring down the road at the group of armoured humans who were fast approaching.

"Get behind me," her mother warned, pushing her out of view. Her mother turned to face the guards, eyes lowered as they approached. "Good evening, sers," she said automatically as they came closer.

"That's her," one of the guards whispered. Sylvanna did not like them; they smelled of sour shem sweat and polished metal, their hands too large and their faces rough and stubbly with coarse traces of hair.

The tallest shem, who seemed to be the leader, frowned and ripped a pamphlet off a nearby wall, thrusting it in her mother's face. "You know the rules, elf," he said, waving the scrap of paper. Sylvanna had never learnt her letters, but she knew the words by heart:

_Elves who have swords will die upon them._

"I swear, I don't know what you're talking about," her mother said, taking a step backwards.

"Search her," the tall shem ordered. One of the men struck her mother, and she cried out, stumbling to the side. The others set upon her, like a school of silver fishes flocking to an easy meal. They were brutal and efficient, the first guard finally emerging with what appeared to be a long butcher's knife in his hand.

"We found this," he said, presenting it to the tall shem.

Her mother coughed, blood dripping down the side of her mouth. "It's not a weapon – please," she begged, her hand outstretched in supplication. "I work in the kitchen of Lord Parthen-"

"So you're a thief as well?" the tall shem asked, flipping the knife over in his hands.

"No-"

The guards set upon her again, the blows sounding sickening as her mother screamed. Sylvanna felt ill, as if she was about to throw up, but instead of bile all she could feel was anger and fear, bubbling up in her throat like a tidal wave.

"Leave her alone!" she screamed, the sound echoing off the walls of the apartments leaning in on them from either side of the street. To her surprise, all the guards fell down as if they were cards in a game of porthos, the shems crying out in pain and clutching at their helmeted heads.

"What have you done?" her mother demanded, looking up at her daughter in horror.

"There she is." Sylvanna turned, seeing another group of shems approaching from the end of the street. They were also heavily outfitted in metal suits, but unlike the first group, these men appeared to be wearing long, embroidered skirts over their armour.

"No," her mother said, shakily getting to her feet. There was blood staining her dress, the stain looking almost black in the low light. "Please – don't take my daughter!"

A heavy hand clamped down on Sylvanna's shoulder and she squealed, struggling in vain to break free of the grip. "We claim this child for the Circle of Magi," the shem said gruffly, pushing her forward. "She leaves with us tonight."

"No," Sylvanna cried, twisting to try to catch a glimpse of her mother's face. "Mama!" she screamed, seeing the guards beginning to rise, their faces ugly with anger.

"Don't look," one of the men warned her, pushing her around to face the front. Tears were clouding her eyes, and she could barely see where she was going, one foot stumbling in front of the other.

"Why aren't you helping her?" Sylvanna demanded, squirming in the man's heavy grasp. Behind them, her mother screamed, and Sylvanna sobbed in frustration, beating her tiny fists against the man's armour until they were raw and bloody.

"We have what we came here for," the one holding her growled, tightening his grip on her shoulder until she squealed in pain. She could feel the power burning behind her eyes again, anger and fear driving it into a sharp focus, growing until she could no longer contain it within herself.

"Watch out, she's going live-"

An armoured hand struck her at the back of her head, and the screaming stopped.

.

.

.

_Never again,_ she had told herself when she began the long and arduous study of magic. Never again would she be so useless, so helpless to save the ones she had loved the most-

The dull smack of metal against flesh broke her from her reverie, and she turned over, staring up into the face of the human who had brought her here. He was a sergeant, she thought, from the tiny golden insignia on his shoulders, recognised after long evenings with nothing better to do than to rifle through old military histories kept in the library at the tower.

"You killed five of my best men out there, mage," the sergeant claimed, and spat on her. She brought a hand, achingly, painfully slowly to her face, and carefully wiped the spittle away.

"They died cleanly. It was more than they deserved."

"Tell that to their grieving widows and children," the sergeant snarled, reaching down and backhanding her across the face. The sharp edges of his gauntlets cut deeply into her cheek, and she felt the warmth of blood running down her neck. "The charges against you are high, grey warden: regicide, treason, and murder. What punishment do you think you deserve for your crimes?"

Sylvanna stared at the floor, holding her tongue.

"Answer the question, you knife-eared cunt," the guard behind her growled, his boot connecting solidly against her ribs with an ugly cracking noise. She cried out, her body curling up automatically into a foetal position, the pain now a fierce burning sensation rather than the dull throbbing she had been almost able to block out earlier. Any more of this, and it would be all over. She had survived darkspawn, dragons and blood mages - only to die at the fists of some rowdy shems that she could have otherwise taken out single-handedly. It was almost too much to bear.

The guard readied for another blow, but the sergeant held up a hand, stopping him mid-stride.

"It's time we taught this elf some manners, don't you think?" the sergeant asked, a dangerous hunger in his eyes.

Things quickly became worse from there.


	11. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi to the new readers who've recently joined us – please let me know your thoughts if you haven't already left a comment! And thank you to those who have been here from the start. I love reading your feedback, although I can't promise that there won't still be bad things to come (what can I say, Dragon Age is set in a brutal world).
> 
> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains references to rape.

When Sylvanna regained consciousness, the first thing she became aware of was the pain.

It was around her and within her, all-consuming and unavoidable, demanding her entire attention. It hurt to breathe, her lungs rasping like sandpaper bags, a curious pressure on her chest that she realised with horror was probably due to a series of cracked or broken ribs.

The second thing she became aware of was Morrigan, peering down at her with a concerned look on her face.

"Morrigan?" Sylvanna asked in a hoarse voice. "Why are you dressed like a sister? How did you find me?" Briefly, she wondered if she was still dreaming or dead. She was in far too much pain to be dreaming, though – everything ached, and she was freezing, on top of that. She glanced down, and was alarmed to see the amount of blood – hers, she assumed – congealing on her naked body.

"The ring," Morrigan said curtly, reaching into her pack for a poultice.

Sylvanna touched her hand to her neck. Somehow, her necklace was still intact, the tiny wooden band still suspended on the chain, its surface further darkened by splatters of blood. "Is that lyrium?" she pleaded, reaching out for the bottle Morrigan was holding.

"You used the last of our supply killing Howe," Morrigan said uneasily. "We haven't had a chance to brew more."

Sylvanna stared at her, not believing her ears. She felt a wave of nausea come over her and gagged, swallowing hard to avoid retching what was left of her insides all over the floor.

"Here," Morrigan ordered, thrusting the salve in her face. Sylvanna took it with shaking hands, dabbing it across her swollen face and neck. Instantly, her cuts sealed over, and the pain dulled to a faint ache. She smeared the poultice over her side and chest, feeling its healing powers as a surge of warmth against her bruised and bloodied skin. The poultice could only help so much, though; any broken bones would have to wait.

"Could you... turn around," she asked. As the witch looked away, she used the rest of the salve to tend to her other wounds, wincing with the effort.

"Is there anyone else with you?" Sylvanna asked when she had finished.

"Only Leliana. She's looking for your things – your armour, your weapons-"

"I'll need something new to wear," Sylvanna said desperately, her arms curled over her body strategically to preserve what little remained of her modesty.

"Take this," Morrigan said, taking off the chantry dress she had layered over her regular robes and helping Sylvanna into them. Raising her arms over her head made her feel faint, but somehow between the two of them they managed. "Can you walk?" Morrigan demanded.

"I'll have to," Sylvanna said pragmatically. "Help me up." As she stumbled to her feet, she saw Leliana out of the corner of her eye, carrying what she hoped was her staff.

"You poor thing," Leliana said when she saw her, pulling Sylvanna into a careful hug. The gesture hurt, but it was reassuring; Leliana felt safe, familiar.

"I'm glad you're alive," Sylvanna said. "Did Oghren and Zevran – did they make it?"

"Yes, of course-" Leliana began.

"We should get going," Morrigan said sharply, looking over the two of them with narrowed eyes.

"I'll go ahead, see how many guards are out there," Leliana offered. "How are you?" she asked Sylvanna uncertainly. "I mean, are you able to fight?"

The elf shook her head. "I can use the staff, but I don't have the energy for any spells. Morrigan will just have to disable any patrols we see and we'll need to move past them as quickly as we can before anyone sounds the alarm."

Leliana nodded, looking grim. She slinked away from them, her form blending in with the shadows so easily that she was almost indistinguishable.

"How did you get here?" Sylvanna asked Morrigan as they waited. "Did they really believe you were a Chantry sister?"

"They truly were that incompetent, yes. We entered through the main doors without any trouble at all." Morrigan hesitated, then went on. "Do you wish to talk?" she asked, uncomfortably.

"This is hardly the time, is it?"

Leliana returned at that moment. She glanced at the two mages uneasily, but chose to make no comment on the obvious tension between them.

"There are seven guards on the main floor. They just seem to be chatting I think, and spread out – in groups of two and three about twenty yards apart. There may be some patrols further up as well, but I couldn't be sure."

Sylvanna nodded. "We'll need them to gather together, and in a way that won't cause alarm. Leliana, if you get back into your Chantry robes and draw them together, Morrigan will take care of the rest. We'll need to make a run for it and deal with any patrols on the way."

The two women nodded, with Leliana quickly pulling her robes on over her Dalish leathers. Sylvanna leaned heavily on her staff; it was the only way she could stay upright without swaying. Leliana had recovered almost everything of hers – her dagger, her belt and gloves, even her boots – but she felt vulnerable in the ill-fitting Chantry robe, its garish colours doing nothing to help her fade into the background.

Leliana finished dressing and the two of them turned to Sylvanna expectantly.

"Let's move," Sylvanna ordered.

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.

.

Her plan went off without a hitch. The guards in the common room were sleeping soundly, unconscious even before their heads hit the ground. Sylvanna could see the door leading to the outside world, tantalisingly in reach.

"Halt!" a voice called from behind her.

"I think not," Morrigan said, launching into a spell. The three guards who had snuck up behind them suddenly landed on the floor, twitching in pain.

They continued onwards, their pace hampered by Sylvanna's injuries. At the end of the hallway, guided by some inner suspicion, Sylvanna turned her head to glance back at the patrol that Morrigan had stunned, still collapsed on the floor. A tiny gold insignia on one of the guard's armour caught her eye and she held up a hand for her companions to wait, her eyes widening.

"That's one of them," she whispered, her voice filled with hatred as she pointed her staff towards him. Any other time and she would have launched a fireball directly into his face. It would have crippled him for life, if not outright killed him.

"Sylvanna, we have to go," Leliana urged her, taking her hand.

"Don't touch me!" the elf snapped, breaking free of her grasp. "That man doesn't deserve to live."

"Leliana's right," Morrigan said unexpectedly. "We need to leave – now."

"I thought you, of all people, would understand revenge," Sylvanna said bitterly, unable to tear her eyes away from his face, made even uglier in pain. His death was so close, she could almost taste it.

"I understand survival," the witch said. "Don't be a fool - this is not the time."

Sylvanna could feel tears of anger and frustration welling in her eyes, and she blinked them away furiously. Behind them, there were sounds of the guards in the common room waking up, shouts ringing through the hallway. Leliana was watching her anxiously, waiting for her call.

Turning away from the sergeant felt like a physical blow to Sylvanna, the last defeat in a day full of defeats. The two women beside her gave sighs of relief, guiding her out the final door and into freedom at last.

.

.

.

They travelled for what felt like hours, through the back alleyways of Denerim and along dark, deserted streets. She had no idea how Leliana knew where they were going and at that point, did not really care. Every breath was agony, every step a challenge. The exertion had reopened at least one of her injuries; she could feel blood soaking through her robes down her side.

"A little further," Leliana said encouragingly, looking back at them. Her face went pale when she turned to Sylvanna. "Oh my... you look terrible," she said, reaching into her pack for a poultice.

"I just need to rest for a bit," Sylvanna protested, clutching the wound at her side. The loss of blood was making her feel dizzy, every part of her burning in pain. "I think I'm going to pass out," she said helpfully, just before her head hit the pavement.


	12. Game of Thrones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Trigger Warning: This chapter contains references to rape. It also contains some in-game dialogue. As always, Dragon Age belongs to BioWare etc.
> 
> Restless Goddess: I thought more about your comment on ch 6, about Wynne making a fuss about demonic possession. Re-reading the codex, it turns out that spirit healers are more susceptible than other mages to attracting demons, hence justifying Wynne's paranoia, at least in my mind :-)

The next time Sylvanna woke up, it was in far more pleasant surrounds.

The pain was only minimal now, isolated to a dull throbbing at the side of her head and a wretched aching around her ribs. She looked up, her eyes scanning the corners of her room. She was back at Arl Eamon's estate, the smells and sounds of Denerim trickling in through the sole window in the room that had been left slightly ajar. It was maybe late afternoon, judging by the angle of the sunlight, which meant that she must have been sleeping for some hours now. She tried to sit up, but could not; pressure across her shoulders and abdomen preventing her from moving.

Choking down the panic that was rapidly rising up in her throat, she glanced down at herself at last. She was wearing a plain smock that she did not recognise as being her own, the cut sitting loosely on her. Each of her injuries had been expertly bound, betraying a signature touch that she knew all too well. Criss-crossing her body were lines of rope, stretching across her to loop under the bed and back around again. She breathed out, closing her eyes. She was safe. She had to believe that. This was all a horrible mistake.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice hoarse from disuse. "Wynne?"

There was silence for the longest time, and she felt the panic welling up in her again. She began to struggle against the bonds, the rope chafing harshly on her skin and on her dressed wounds. She stopped when she saw blood welling up through the bandages over her chest, spreading darkly through the white fabric.

_You're a mage, Sylvanna_, she told herself angrily. _Act like one._

She had a trickle of power, a teasing, fragile spark within her that wavered like a sputtering candle. Tentatively, she pulled at it, flicking her hand open. A tiny flame emerged from the tip of her finger, delicate and ethereal. She moved it, achingly slowly towards the first strand of rope, trying to shelter it from the slight breeze that was blowing in from the open window.

The cords that bound her were thick and heavy, the tiny flame working through a single loop of cord strand by strand. It was like watching ice melt, but she gritted her teeth, concentrating on keeping the flame alight. She felt as though she were an apprentice again, only it was much worse this time; the utter, implacable tedium absolutely maddening.

"You're awake."

Sylvanna startled, the flame extinguishing in an instant. She looked up, finding the grim expression of the senior enchanter observing her disapprovingly.

"Wynne," she said unnecessarily, swallowing to ease the sudden dryness in her throat. "Let me up," she pleaded.

The senior enchanter ignored her, gesturing to the blood-soaked bandages on her chest. "You make a very poor patient," she complained. "This old woman wearies of running around after you."

"Wynne!" Sylvanna hissed, a note of fear in her voice. "You can't just tie me up-"

"I'm sorry, my dear, but I had to take precautions," Wynne said grimly. "After what happened last time, I could hardly be sure that you wouldn't wake up as an abomination, could I?"

"Oh, for the love of Andraste!" Sylvanna cried out sharply. "Please - just - please," she begged at last, holding back tears of frustration.

The senior enchanter observed her silently, finally taking a dagger from her belt and beginning to saw away at the knots at the side of the bed. Sylvanna gave a sob of relief as she was finally free, pushing away the slack loops of cords from her as if they were snakes.

"Let's have a look at those ribs of yours," Wynne sighed, taking spare bandages and a bowl of water from the side table. Sylvanna obediently sat still, shuddering at the touch of healing magic that closed her wounds and stopped her bleeding. Wynne was quick and efficient, deftly rebinding the injury with fresh bandages.

"Do you wish to discuss what happened?" Wynne asked at last, her eyes travelling over Sylvanna's frame. She must look like such an invalid, Sylvanna thought, with the amount of bandages covering her.

"No."

Wynne shrugged, making little effort to hide her disapproval. "I will be here if you need me."

Sylvanna glanced out the window, avoiding the other's gaze. "Does anyone else know?" she asked quietly. "Besides... Morrigan and Leliana, I mean."

"Did you think that this old woman was unable to hold her tongue?" Wynne chided, waving away Sylvanna's apologies. "Most of them are simply grateful that you are alive. Zevran suspects, but will keep his assumptions to himself, if he knows what's good for him."

Sylvanna nodded. Considering his upbringing, the former Crow would probably understand her current feelings better than most of them, strangely enough. It undoubtedly played a part in forming his perverse notions about consent.

"I'm surprised that Morrigan came for me," she commented, to fill the silence.

"When you were captured, she seemed truly concerned for your safety," Wynne said, surprising Sylvanna with her candour. "I am glad, however, that you... have ended the liaison."

"The choice wasn't mine," Sylvanna said bitterly. "It was... not what I wanted."

The senior enchanter sighed. "No matter the circumstances, it was the right thing to do. You will avoid much heartache in the future."

"I... still care for her," Sylvanna admitted. At Wynne's horrified expression she became quiet, fiddling with a loose thread on one of the bandages. It still hurt to speak, to think of Morrigan, but it was a hollow, dull ache. She was growing numb, she thought, building a rigid outer shell piece by piece to prevent anyone hurting her again.

"How is Anora?" she asked suddenly. In her haste, she had neglected to pose the question to Leliana, almost having forgotten the reason for their presence in Howe's estate in the first place.

"She is safe," Wynne said reassuringly. "She escaped during..."

Sylvanna nodded, swallowing the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. "I'm glad," she said at last. It would have been unbearable if she had... suffered... all that she had, only to find out that the queen had been killed by a stray arrow or recaptured.

"She... has been informed of what happened," Wynne said carefully. "I understand that she is grateful that you did not betray her identity, thus allowing her to escape."

"How grateful?" Sylvanna asked bitterly. The price to free the reigning monarch had been much, much higher than she had been expecting to pay.

"She has requested an audience with you, so you can ask her yourself," Wynne explained. "No - don't get up, Sylvanna," the healer warned as her patient struggled to stand, holding onto the bed head to support herself.

"I'm not even dressed," Sylvanna said despairingly, gesturing towards the inadequate smock she was wearing.

"She will see you once you've fed and rested, and not a moment sooner," Wynne said primly, rummaging in the chest at the foot of the bed. She pulled out a loose, comfortable pair of robes, and helped the elf into them, the generous cut at least hiding the bulk of the bandages.

"Yes," Sylvanna agreed wearily. She had missed this, she thought guiltily, being mothered by the older mage. It was quite... soothing, having someone else worry about her for a change. She obediently got back into bed at Wynne's behest, comforted by the promise of food and for a moment to herself. Some of her injuries were going to leave a scar, she thought unhappily, running a hand over the dressings on her face.

"There's someone here to see you," Wynne said slyly, opening the door to her room.

"Thetus!" Sylvanna exclaimed, opening her arms for a hug as her mabari carefully manoeuvred his way onto the bed. She buried her face in his short, coarse fur, for once not even caring about the smell. He was safety and security, something her body recognised on a visceral level. "I missed you," she said affectionately, ruffling the fur behind his ears.

"I'll have a girl bring up some plates for both of you," Wynne said from the doorway, clucking in exasperation at the amount of dirt Thetus was managing to get on the bedspread.

"Thank you," Sylvanna said, looking up. "Thank you... for everything," she repeated hesitantly, the words coming with difficulty to her lips.

Wynne nodded her head, a faint, sad smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "You are welcome," she said, and then she was gone.

.

.

.

Sylvanna felt a little better once Anora had left, although still exhausted beyond words. "I suppose that could have been worse?" she suggested to Thetus, who eyed her doubtfully from beside her bed. "Oh don't you give me that look, I know what I'm doing," she muttered. There were going to be problems if her own dog did not believe her to be capable of securing the succession of the Fereldan throne.

There was a cautious knock at the door, sounding faintly metallic against the wood. "Come in," Sylvanna called out.

"You look terrible," Alistair commented frankly as he entered the room, his eyes taking in her pallor and the swathe of bandages across her face and neck. "I mean, really, really, really terrible."

"Thanks, Alistair," Sylvanna said dryly.

"Why didn't you take me?" he demanded suddenly. "I could have helped-"

"You would have been captured too, and possibly executed along with me," Sylvanna pointed out. "Anora is alive, and so am I. That's all that matters."

"But Wynne said you must have broken half the bones in your body-"

"Alistair, I asked you in here to talk about our next plans," Sylvanna said tiredly, rubbing a hand across her eyes. She had to look away from him for a moment, reclaiming her composure with difficulty. "I want you to take a team and check out what's happening in the Alienage. You should take Zevran with you, and maybe Wynne and Morrigan."

"Shouldn't Wynne stay here with you?" Alistair asked. "And... do I really have to bring Morrigan?" he questioned, a look of distaste on his face.

"Wynne's done all she can for me," Sylvanna explained. "And you might need Morrigan's talents – the guards have so far been unable to handle the situation down there, so it's probably dangerous."

Alistair nodded, grudgingly. "We'll leave first thing tomorrow," he said.

"Good. Be careful," Sylvanna added, looking over the ex-templar. There were dark circles under his eyes; he hadn't been sleeping well either, she thought. The archdemon was getting ready to move soon, they could both sense it. Sometimes she thought she could hear it singing, in her dreams; she would wake up trembling with the terrible desire to join the dark horde surging to its side, to stand in awe in its presence and hear its song undiluted by distance or time. On her bad days, it was even worse.

Facing each other, they pretended for a moment as if that was all there was: one Grey Warden speaking to another about plans, tactics, movements, and never anything more.

"Alistair, sit, please," she said at last. Even if she was not in bed, he would tower over her. She had long since gotten used to being the second shortest one in the room, but for this talk she needed to see him eye to eye. He deserved that much, at least.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" he asked apprehensively, but did as she requested.

The words came haltingly, clumsily slow. How did you tell a friend that they needed to give up their livelihood, their hopes and dreams for the sake of the nation? She listed reasons, painted scenarios, drew on all her knowledge of human politics as she had been able to grasp from dusty books from the tower and listening to Eamon's lectures long into the night. His expression continued to grow darker and darker, as if his face was a canvas where storm clouds were rolling in.

"You know why we need to do this," she pleaded, reaching out for him, but he jerked away from her touch as though she were some kind of demon.

"It's because I'm a man, isn't it?" he demanded suddenly, his brow furrowed in anger. "You'd never be doing this if - if it were Leliana you were marrying off to some haughty harpy-king-person."

"That's ridiculous-" Sylvanna began, her breath catching in her throat.

"Is it?" He placed his head in his hands, fingers clenched tightly. "This is why you had Oghren take me to that - that place," he spat. "That whorehouse. Do you think that's all I care about?" He looked up at her then, eyes blazing with a rare kind of fury she had never remembered seeing in him before. "I never wanted this. You know that," he said accusingly.

"I'm sorry, Alistair. Really, I am," she said miserably. "It's for-"

"The good of Ferelden: I know," he said coldly as he stood up, pacing the room restlessly like a caged animal. "Why does this get left for you to decide, anyway?" he demanded angrily, rounding on her. "Why can't I have a say? Doesn't what I want matter?"

Half of the estate must have heard him by now, Sylvanna thought, looking worriedly at his furious expression, his hands clenched into ugly fists. Including Anora.

"This shouldn't be left up to you," he snapped at her. "You're - you're not even human!"

Thetus lunged towards him then, a warning growl sounding low in his throat, and snapped at the former templar, his powerful jaws slicing cleaning through the air where Alistair's fingers were just a moment ago. Alistair backed away from the angry mabari, hands raised defeatedly in the air. "That… last part was uncalled for. I'm sorry," he muttered.

"The ruler of Ferelden must be a ruler for all her people," Sylvanna said quietly, folding her hands on her lap. "Not only the rich or the influential, the wise or the fortunate. You've seen how we live," she said, raising her eyes to him, a distinct emphasis on the 'we'. "Anora and Cailan had five years to make a difference for the elves, for the Fereldan citizens living in their own city, a stone's throw away from the palace. They did not. I have little faith that Anora will remedy the situation, if she is left in power on her own."

"And… you think I could make a difference?" Alistair asked, a little incredulously.

"Do you want to?" she challenged, staring pointedly at him. "You understand what it means to be persecuted through no fault of your own. You know how it feels to be hated just for having been born, to be exploited, to be despised. Please, Alistair," she begged him.

"I…" Alistair sighed, looking away. "Maybe you're right. I hate it when you're right," he said defeatedly. "Go ahead, then. Tell her I'll do it, if it comes to that."

The victory tasted bitter to Sylvanna, the cost almost higher than she had been willing to pay. Perhaps she was in the wrong. Who was she, to dabble with the lives of kings and queens, to roll the dice in the game of thrones? But she put those thoughts away when she looked up at him, knowing that no matter her doubts, his would be far greater. "Thank you," she said at last, pouring as much gratitude as she could into her words. "This means a lot to me."

"Yeah, well…" a look of disgust crossed Alistair's face, as he contemplated his impending future. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to have a small heart attack somewhere. No big deal, right?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before he slammed the door shut behind him.

.

.

.

Sylvanna sighed, her head in her hands. Despite Wynne's ministrations, her skull still throbbed with a relentless ache, and her recent conversation had only made matters worse. She knew in her heart that Alistair could be a good king, even a great king, if he allowed it, but was that enough? Thetus gazed up at her with his large brown eyes and barked doubtfully, licking her palm.

Sylvanna looked down at him, her heart constricting painfully as she stared into his loyal face. "Hush," she said quietly, smoothing the bed covers over with her hands and simultaneously draining the doubt and worry from her face. She was cool, collected, and calm. She had to keep telling herself that.

Thetus whined unhappily, lying down beside her. She reached down a hand, stroking the mabari soothingly behind the ears. "Sten," she said, looking up as the warrior entered the room. "It's good to see you."

"And you, kadan," the qunari said gruffly.

"Alistair is taking a team to investigate the Alienage tomorrow," Sylvanna commented.

"I have heard," Sten said, with all his usual economy of words.

"While he's doing that, I want you to check out the rumours we found from Orzammar and the Dalish forest and Andraste's temple – you know, ancient evil, secret riches, and all that."

"I do not understand how this will help us defeat Loghain," Sten frowned. "Surely I should be aiding Alistair -"

"Sending in more heavily armoured humans – or qunari – into the Alienage is not a good idea," Sylvanna said wearily. "The community is unlikely to cooperate with us if it appears that we're sending soldiers in to raid their homes, and that is what it will look like to them. This evil, whatever it is, could be connected to the darkspawn, or it could be an abomination running loose." She leaned forward in the bed, fixing the warrior with a serious look. "Either way, I think we should take care of it before it harms more people, and we probably won't get another chance to do that."

"I will do as you ask, kadan," Sten said at last.

Sylvanna nodded. She expected no less from him.

"You seem unwell," the qunari commented, surprising Sylvanna. He was not exactly known for small talk, and she was unsure as to whether she liked the expression on his face.

"Wynne says most of my injuries should heal within a day or so-"

"No," Sten said sharply. "It is not an illness of the body you are suffering from, but an illness of the mind. I am concerned about your ability to lead us in this state."

Sylvanna observed him carefully, her face painstakingly blank. "What are you talking about, Sten?"

"I helped secure you when you first arrived here."

Sylvanna swallowed, an unpleasant taste in her mouth as she remembered the feeling of the ropes, pressing painfully against her skin. Wynne had somehow neglected to mention Sten's role in that part. "How does this affect my mind or my ability to lead?" she questioned, keeping her voice neutral.

"I have known women in your condition," Sten said implacably, impervious to her glacial stare. "They become timid, fearful. These are not desirable traits in a leader-"

"So you think that I will be the same, simply because I am a woman?" Sylvanna asked, unable now to keep the disbelief from her words.

"You cannot deny what you are," Sten glared at her.

"We are not having this conversation again," Sylvanna retorted hotly, remembering his words at camp, from so long ago. _Women are priests, artisans, shopkeepers, or farmers. They don't fight._

"Hmph." Their eyes locked, hers furious and burning with anger, his implacable as stone. At last he nodded, having elicited an answer to whatever question he had been trying to pose to her, and left the room in silence.

Sylvanna looked down at Thetus, who stared at her unhappily.

Drawing on all her strength, she slipped out of bed, biting off a curse as she struggled to stand upright. Her dog nosed at her hand, and she grabbed at the fur along the scruff of his neck for support, pulling hard enough that he yelped in pain.

"Sorry, boy," she said soothingly. "Wait outside the door – don't let anyone in."

Thetus whined despondently but obeyed, padding out with an unhappy twitch to his stubby tail.

Sylvanna had been doing fine at holding herself together, or so she thought. She had to, after all; she was the Grey Warden who had united the races of Ferelden against the darkspawn. She had faced abominations, blood mages, revenants, ogres and angry men with swords; she was a slayer of dragons, rescuer of kittens.

Once she was truly alone, she closed the door, leaning against it as she caught her breath. She made her way back to the bed somehow, collapsing into it and burying her face into her pillow. Slowly, tentatively, she allowed herself to feel, as if prodding at a sore tooth for the first time. Once she had begun remembering the horrors of the past day, there was no stopping it and the tears poured hot and blinding from her until there was nothing left.

.

.

.

She slept fitfully for a few hours, utterly drained, when a noise woke her from a formless nightmare. She remained still, feigning sleep as she cautiously opened one eye.

It was Morrigan, she realised with surprise, sitting in the chair at the far side of the room. She seemed distracted, fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

"I thought I told Thetus not to let anyone in."

The witch shrugged elegantly. "It appears that your hound is susceptible to bribery."

Sylvanna sighed tiredly, rubbing a hand across her eyes as she sat up. "I never thanked you for rescuing me. Thank you."

"I am sorry," Morrigan said. Sylvanna's face must have betrayed a look of shock or disbelief, because she repeated her words.

"I am sorry that we were unable to kill them all." Morrigan looked awkward, tense, obviously unsure of what to say or do. They'd had no chance to speak since the rescue; Sylvanna had been with Wynne for most of the time and Morrigan had not approached her.

"The darkspawn will take them if Loghain has his way," Sylvanna said wearily. "But… thank you. For the thought."

Morrigan nodded, but did not speak again.

The silence stretched out between them. This was their first time together, alone, since the night Morrigan had ended their relationship. They had avoided each other once leaving the forest, focusing on the mission, and upon reaching Denerim there had been Arl Eamon and then Anora and no time for anything else.

"I think I should try and rest," Sylvanna said, burying her face into her pillow. "And if you have any preparations before going to the Alienage tomorrow, you should do them now."

"I am prepared. I will stay here, if it does not disturb you," the witch said carefully, as if unsure in her own mind whether she wished to stay or go.

"I... " Sylvanna was too tired to make sense of the gesture. Did Morrigan wish to assure herself that she was not going to be possessed by demons? The possibility had never concerned the witch before, and the probability of that occurrence was somewhat lower now since she'd had her injuries tended to. "As you like," she said eventually, pretending not to care one way or another.

Sylvanna closed her eyes, trying to think of nothing. The blanket was scratchy, and every time she moved against it she flinched, remembering a hand closing on her shoulder, a gauntleted fist striking her across the face. She sat up abruptly, unable to bear it.

"Morrigan," she said desperately. "I can't sleep. Could you…?"

The witch glided silently over to the bed, her expression unreadable. "Lie down," she ordered. "Close your eyes."

As Sylvanna obeyed, she could feel the warm threads of magic envelop her gently, and she relaxed into the spell with a sigh.

"Sleep, Sylvanna," Morrigan instructed. "Dream of nothing."

For the first time since her Joining, Sylvanna slept soundly.


	13. The Gift: Reprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Trigger Warning: This chapter contains references to rape. NSFW.
> 
> Thank you very much for the comments!

As soon as her head injuries began to heal, the magic came back to her in a trickle – painfully, achingly slowly, or so it felt. She dreamed of it, hungered for it, reached for it in her sleep; without it, she was incomplete, she was nothing; a mere shadow of her former self.

But now it filled her, gloriously, the power stretching all the way from her toes to her fingertips, dancing electric across her skin and tasting metallic upon her tongue. She welcomed it back into her like a recalcitrant lover, completely forgiving it for abandoning her and begging it to never, ever leave again.

The estate seemed so empty without her companions, even though it was anything but - there was Arl Eamon, and Anora, of course, and their retinue, the endless procession of servants and guards, cooks and maids and squires. She caught herself flinching, more than once, at the approach of any human wearing armour, forcing herself each time not to flee at the sound of metallic footsteps echoing on the stone floor.

She had discarded most of her dressings already, Wynne's skill and careful eye seeing to her swift recovery. There were several new scars across her body that she would have to learn to wear. She stared at herself in the mirror, observing each one with a critical eye. The bruises had faded instantly with Wynne's ministrations, but she still looked a wreck - dark circles under her eyes, unkempt hair, sallow skin. Across her face there were three long, slender lines where the deepest points of the gauntlet had cut her. They were darker at the edge of her cheek, near her ear, fading to almost white at the corner of her mouth. She brought a hand up to her face, hovering just over the surface of her skin, not quite able to bring herself to touch it.

Wynne had brought her some kind of noxious tonic, the liquid appearing black and almost sticky when Sylvanna had peered into the mug. "To avoid... complications," the senior enchanter had explained vaguely, and Sylvanna had downed the contents without a second thought, trying not to choke on the bitter after-taste.

She opened the one window in the room, looking out into the courtyard below. There were servants criss-crossing the yard, most of them human, carrying water or weaponry or simply scurrying from one place to another. She wondered idly how many of them were Loghain's spies; that was the sort of thing nobles did, wasn't it? Using those below them, those invisible in the course of daily life, to do their dirty work?

Her musings were broken by a sharp rapping at the door and she turned guiltily with a start, realising that she had let her thoughts drift away with her.

"Come in," Sylvanna called.

It was only Alistair, and she let out the breath she had not been aware of holding. A flicker of disappointment must have shown in her eyes, as the former templar frowned, pretending to be affronted.

"And here I thought you'd be more pleased to see me," he complained.

"I'm... surprised, I suppose. I thought the investigation would take longer," Sylvanna admitted. "Sten has... still not returned."

"Hmm." Alistair took a seat at the chair beside the bed, dropping down on it with a sigh. He stretched his hands above his head, the joints popping with a slightly sickening click.

"Are you injured?" Sylvanna asked dubiously, giving him a more careful look. He must have only just returned as there was fresh blood still on his armour, and scorch marks that suggested a run-in with either mages or demons.

"No, Wynne took care of all that," he said absently. "I'm getting old, I suppose."

"Aren't we all."

He gave a half-hearted chuckle at the sentiment, lapsing quickly into moody silence. His fingers rapped hollowly against the piece of plate armour protecting his knee, the sound putting Sylvanna's teeth on edge.

"Can you stop that?" she snapped.

Alistair stopped guiltily, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Sorry," he muttered. "It's been a... long day."

Sylvanna waited patiently, saying nothing. At last the Grey Warden sighed and leant forward, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips. "Loghain was allowing Tevinter slavers into the Alienage," he explained. "They were... taking elves."

"What?" Like most Fereldans, Sylvanna had grown up with stories of the Hero of River Dane – stories that scarcely matched the reality, as it turned out. Nevertheless, she had never imagined him capable of this. She wondered, not for the first time, how her childhood friends had fared. What if Kallian was taken as a slave? The things that she could be forced to do – Sylvanna wrapped a hand over her mouth, trying to choke down a wave of nausea.

"They're safe now," Alistair said hurriedly. "We killed the slavers – don't worry about that," he added grimly.

"Good," Sylvanna said darkly. Death was too kind a fate for them.

"As awful as it is, we have something now, something to take to the Landsmeet. Arl Eamon is already preparing to call for it," Alistair explained.

Sylvanna nodded, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Loghain must die," she declared, not caring how much political wrangling it would take to pull it off. Anora would understand, if she was as smart as everyone claimed she was, or she would lose the throne. It was really that simple.

"Agreed," Alistair said grimly.

"You should rest," Sylvanna insisted, placing a hand on his shoulder briefly, and then wiping off the blood that had transferred onto her fingers, hoping it was slaver blood and not his own.

"I was told to give this to you," he said unexpectedly, pressing something into her palm. She looked down at it curiously. It was a long, metal hairpin, two wooden beads hanging decoratively off from one end. She stared at it, wonderingly, brushing her thumb over its burnished surface.

"Where did you get this?" she asked in a whisper, her voice hoarse.

"Not me. Morrigan," he explained, watching her uneasily. "I saw her talking to the – how do you say – Hahren? Elder? ...And she told me you would want it."

"Morrigan," Sylvanna echoed dully. She turned the pin over. There were traces of blood soaked into the little wooden beads, darkened to black with age. "This was my mother's," she explained to Alistair, finally raising her eyes to meet his. She could scarcely remember, but it had been one of her first conversations with Morrigan, just outside Lothering. The witch had unexpectedly asked her about her mother, and Sylvanna had confessed that she had lived in Denerim but died on the night that she had been taken to the Circle tower. When Sylvanna had professed that she had loved her mother, the expression on the witch's face had been wistful, betraying a yearning that had been long suppressed, the emotion gone so quickly that Sylvanna had almost doubted whether it had ever been there.

"Where is Morrigan?" she demanded.

"I'm not sure-" the former templar began, but Sylvanna was already out the door, running to find the answers that only the witch could give to her.

.

.

.

She cornered Morrigan at last, sitting in the corner of her own room, a heavy tome nestled in her lap. She shut the book hurriedly when Sylvanna approached, clasping her hands over the top of its dark leather cover.

"How dare you!" Sylvanna began as she stormed into the room, incensed. "How dare you accuse me of having feelings for you, when you go ahead and do this-" she gestured wildly, the hair pin glimmering in the palm of her hand.

"'Twas a trifle," Morrigan said uneasily, perturbed by the uncharacteristic outburst. She carefully set the tome down beside her, the detail of its cover now eaten up by the shadows in the corner of her room.

"No!" Sylvanna shouted, not caring who overheard her. "No – you do not go to such lengths to find a – a dead woman's trinket, and then get to call it a trifle."

Morrigan looked at the ornament, a slight frown appearing on her face, as though she regretted its acquisition. The silence stretched out uncomfortably between them, until Sylvanna began to laugh. It was a tortured, laboured sound, half sobbing and half bemused despair. Morrigan shifted uncomfortably, certain that she was being mocked in some oblique way.

"Very well," Sylvanna said at last, in control of herself once more. "If you deem it to be a 'trifle,' then that is how I shall accept it. You have my thanks," she said bitterly, gripping the ornament so tightly that the sharp edges of the trinket bit into her palm.

"You are bleeding," Morrigan noted, gesturing to the blood dripping off her hand.

"So I am." Sylvanna stared furiously at the redness on her palm, and muttered a word, the wound closing over instantly. She sighed, retrieving a handkerchief from the voluminous sleeve of her robe and dabbed at the cut.

"You should have taken me with you," Morrigan said darkly, her voice lowered to prevent all but Sylvanna from overhearing.

Sylvanna looked over at her sceptically, pressing the handkerchief into the palm of her hand. "Leliana is a competent fighter-"

"That girl is not me," Morrigan hissed as she stood up, anger flashing in her eyes. "Had I been present, we could have dispatched them with ease. Their blood would have boiled in their veins. Every single one of those men and their infamous knight would have died, and died horribly; I can assure you of that."

"You gave me little choice," Sylvanna commented sharply.

"You let your emotions dictate your actions," Morrigan countered angrily.

"And you don't?" Sylvanna demanded, taking a step towards the witch. "You let fear rule you – fear of this – what was between us." She looked away, her hand clenched tightly around the blood-stained scrap of fabric. "Why did you stay with me last night?" she asked, her voice softened to a whisper.

"I-" Morrigan floundered for words, for once looking at a loss to reply.

"Is it because you truly care?" Sylvanna asked mockingly. "Perhaps in the middle of that stone-cold heart of yours there is a glimmer of feeling, a flicker of warmth that you haven't yet crushed in the midst of your desperate bid to prevent anyone from getting close to you-"

Morrigan suppressed her angry words with a kiss, pressing the elf to her in a grip so tight that it left marks on Sylvanna's forearms. Her body was warm and yielding, her lips and tongue hot and pliant and Sylvanna had longed for this, ached for it, but now that she was here, in this moment, she scarcely knew how she ought to feel.

"I care for you," Morrigan admitted as they separated, watching each other warily.

"Prove it," Sylvanna demanded.

Morrigan stared down at her. Sylvanna could see the witch's thoughts warring inside her mind, uncertainty and a natural sense of self-preservation battling with a hunger for this, a reaching out for an emotion she scarcely knew herself to be capable of.

Without turning away, Morrigan gestured, and the door to her room slammed shut. Sylvanna didn't flinch, her eyes tracking the witch's every move, her hands still clenched in angry fists by her side.

"I'm still here," Morrigan said uncertainly. She cupped the side of Sylvanna's face, a thumb tracing over the scars that stretched down from cheek to ear as she slid her other hand around the side of the elf's hip, pulling the Warden in closer.

"I need more than that," Sylvanna said tersely. They were near enough for their bodies to touch, unexpected softness from a woman who was all harsh edges and biting words. She could hear the other's heartbeat, her breath warm against her cheek as she leaned in.

They stumbled to the bed, scarcely aware of who was leading whom. Sylvanna pressed down on Morrigan's shoulders, straddling the taller woman as her fingers worked to unclasp the hooks on her skirt. She must be an idiot to do this, she thought, to give the witch a second chance. But she always had a soft spot for waifs and strays, always believing that people could change. She had trusted Zevran on the hope of this, and that had not been so terrible now, had it? But the heart of a witch was a fickle thing, and though she wanted to believe in her, there was still a flicker of doubt at the back of her mind.

Sylvanna disrobed herself, having mended too many popped buttons and ripped seams under Wynne's disapproving gaze to trust Morrigan to do the task. The witch gasped when she saw her, and Sylvanna frowned before she realised that she had acquired more than a handful of new scars, the extent of which may not have been apparent during the rescue at Fort Drakon.

Morrigan reached out for her, pulling her back gently down into the covers and traced each one of the scars carefully with her fingertips, as if committing their shape and size to memory. She kissed every one of them, softly and slowly with such tenderness that it made Sylvanna want to scream.

"I'm not a doll," she said sharply, drawing Morrigan's gaze. "I won't break."

"I know." The witch pressed her lips to the hollow of the elf's neck, moving across and upwards until she reached Sylvanna's mouth. They explored each other tentatively, Sylvanna reaching up to undo the habitual bun that Morrigan wore, letting her hair cascade down over her shoulders like a silken waterfall, deep and glossy. They luxuriated in the sensation of time, a false illusion, but a pretty one nonetheless, of having all the hours in the world in which to delight each other's senses.

Despite Sylvanna's assurances, Morrigan was infinitely gentle with her and the thought rankled at the Warden like an open wound, that this is what others would forever see in her, someone to be pitied and coddled. She tired of it at last, finally reaching up to tug on the witch's shoulder, pulling her down and flipping her so that she lay with her back against the bed.

Sylvanna placed a hand on the inside of Morrigan's leg and ran it upwards, tiny sparks trailing from her fingertips as she infused her touch with a tiny trickle of magic. Morrigan squirmed beneath her, gasping at the sensation and then laughed, warm with amusement and a hardened edge of desire.

"Another trick?" Morrigan queried. "I see they taught you more than merely how to light fires and slay demons at that tower of yours," she said, grasping Sylvanna's wrist.

"I took extra-curricular classes," the elf murmured, silently thanking Nadine for her lessons. She teased the witch for a while longer, brushing her fingers over the smooth, pale curves of her body, cupping her ample breasts in her hands and rubbing her thumb over a nipple, the movement having the desired effect as Morrigan turned her head to one side, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she arched her body towards Sylvanna's touch. When she finally wearied of teasing, Sylvanna slid her hands ever so slightly lower, and lower, the witch watching her hungrily in anticipation.

"Say it," Sylvanna demanded quietly, rocking her hips forward so that her weight was trapping the other beneath her.

Morrigan glanced up at her languidly, her eyes half-closed. "And here I imagined us to be beyond petty games-"

"Say it," Sylvanna insisted, a core of steel in her voice. She raised her hand, moving it further away and the witch hissed in disappointment, reaching for her. Sylvanna evaded her grasp, and Morrigan fell back onto the pillow, breathing out a sigh of surrender.

Morrigan looked up at her, a trace of amusement in her eyes, wondering when the quiet little Warden had grown up to be such an insufferable minx. "Please," she said at last, pulling Sylvanna to her so that she whispered the word, her lips at the Warden's ear, her breath warm against her skin.

Sylvanna shook her head, brushing Morrigan's hand from her shoulder. "Louder," she instructed, shifting her weight to hold the witch down as she twisted angrily beneath her. They struggled against one another, each jostling to take the upper hand, nails digging sharply into unprotected skin as they vied for mastery of the situation. Both breathing heavily, Morrigan relented at last, lying still under Sylvanna's hands.

"Please," Morrigan said, clearly and distinctly.

Sylvanna smiled, moving her hands tenderly into place. "Now was that so hard?" she asked, gently mocking, as she elicited a moan from the witch.

"You... will pay for this," Morrigan promised, in between gasps of pleasure as she urged Sylvanna on with a twist of her hips, pulling the elf closer to her.

"I look forward to it," Sylvanna commented, allowing a touch more power to slip through her fingertips, heightening their intensity.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes, a smile curving on her lips. "You are enjoying yourself far too much – oh-" she gasped, and suddenly words seemed very far away as Sylvanna indulged her with the length and breadth of her knowledge.

When it was over, she was passionately furious, as Sylvanna had hoped she would be.

"Teach me," Morrigan demanded, pushing Sylvanna onto her back with rather more force than was required.

Sylvanna sighed, rolling onto her side as she propped up her head with one hand. "Don't you remember the last time we compared notes on magic?" she asked, bemused. "Things went rather badly, as I recall-"

Morrigan silenced her with a kiss, her fingernails digging in just above the elf's collarbone as if she wished to throttle her.

"You keep doing that," Sylvanna complained, licking her lips as she pulled away. "You – oh..." she gasped as Morrigan brushed her shoulder, tentatively, a flicker of magic flowing through her skin as they touched. "That... really... tickles..." she giggled irrepressibly, trying to swat the witch away from her until Morrigan soothed her with a different kind of touch, experimenting with the push and pull of the spell.

"That's very... relaxing?" Sylvanna commented, and chuckled at the other's expression. "Here – it's less precise. More like a shiver. Mm... yes, that's almost right," she said encouragingly, squirming at the sensation. "Oh, now... that's very... that's very nice," she admitted, and Morrigan smiled triumphantly, pressing her advantage.

The witch brought her to the peak of ecstasy and then left her there over and over, each time breaking the moment with a tweak of the spell or the teasing absence of touch, forcing Sylvanna to writhe helplessly in her power.

"I want you," Sylvanna begged, trying to pull her lover back to her.

"Is that so, now?" Morrigan raised an eyebrow, eliciting a cry of frustration from the elf as she drew away.

"Damn it, yes!" Sylvanna hissed, drawing on her own magic as she tried to gather Morrigan back to her. The witch merely laughed, the spell sliding off her skin as if she had anticipated its use.

"Because it's you, Warden," she whispered, kissing the pointed tip of Sylvanna's ear, "I shall believe you."

She gave her what she had desperately wanted, finally, and smiled as Sylvanna pressed a fist to her mouth to stop herself from crying out.

Sylvanna gasped for air, her body still trembling at the slightest caress. She could feel Morrigan's body pressed warmly behind her and she turned, her lips seeking out the other's as they kissed, the touch slow and lingering, her lips tingling even as they pulled away. Sylvanna's eyes softened when she looked upon her, trying to remember what it was that she had been so angry about in the first place.

"You... mean a great deal to me," Morrigan said suddenly, unbidden. Sylvanna's eyes widened and she moved to speak, but the witch hushed her, placing a finger upon her lips. "I want you to remember this, no matter what happens," she insisted.

Sylvanna gaped at her in shock, her eyes wide. After a moment, she realised that she must look like a fool and she closed her mouth, swallowing. "You know how I feel about you," she said quietly, glancing up at the witch. "Maker only knows if you deserve it or not." She blinked drowsily, trying to remain awake as she lay her head against Morrigan's chest. She could feel the other's heartbeat through her skin, slow and steady and soothing. Morrigan gingerly wrapped an arm around her, nestling her hand in the small of Sylvanna's back. The elf smiled hesitantly, reaching for her other hand and entwining their fingers together.

Morrigan bit her lip, looking down at the Warden. She tentatively moved her free hand upwards, tracing the length of Sylvanna's spine and reaching up to stroke her hair. The elf made an appreciative noise and closed her eyes, her heartbeat slowing as she drifted towards the mists of the Fade.

The witch lay beside her for long moments, watching the rise and fall of her lover's breath, how her face relaxed in sleep – trusting, vulnerable. The light played softly against the contours of her skin, marking the curve of her hip, the slight swell of her breasts, the way her hair pooled around her face like a veil. Morrigan silently cursed Sylvanna in her mind, even as she committed her appearance to memory, packing the image away in a dark corner of her thoughts.

Her eyes glanced away, trying to find something else to focus on. In one corner of the ceiling, a tiny spider began to spin her web, silken threads tracing their lines from beam to beam. It was slow work, but she persisted, building the foundations for her web strand by strand, before linking the threads in an ever expanding spiral. She was ready to make her home here, but that was the one thing that Morrigan could not do.

She extricated herself carefully, unwrapping her arms from around the slumbering Warden. Quietly she stood, the bed creaking as she shifted her weight. She glanced back, but the elf was still, her breathing deep and even, and Morrigan calmed the sudden twinge of remorse in her heart as she gazed upon her lover's sleeping face. Sylvanna had taken to the spell easily enough, sufficiently relaxed for its roots to take hold without encountering any defences. It was just a little thing, a slight suggestion to ease her into the Fade.

She would sleep for hours, lost in dreams, before she awoke to find herself alone.

And perhaps that was the way it had to be.


	14. The Longest Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Trigger Warning: This chapter contains references to rape.
> 
> With many thanks to ilumiari for the beta, you're totally awesome :)

"Good riddance," Alistair said when Sylvanna told him of Morrigan's departure. His expression softened when he saw the look on her face. "We never needed her, right?" he asked, slapping her on the back in a way that was meant to be jovial but only made the elf wince in pain. Silently, she turned away from him, her shoulders trembling.

"Oh, now, don't cry," Alistair said awkwardly, turning to her. She collapsed on him, burying her face against his chest. Wasn't that uncomfortable, he wondered? "You'll get rust on my armour, and then all the darkspawn will just laugh at me." He touched her hair tentatively, but her sobs only intensified as her body shook with the force of them.

"Maker, I'm useless at these things," he sighed, taking her by the arm. "Here, let's go raid Oghren's stash and have a drink..."

.

.

.

Loghain was dead.

It gave Sylvanna no sense of pleasure, striking off his head in the middle of the assembled crowd of human nobles and sycophants; she, a mage and an elf at the Landsmeet, deciding the fate of the Fereldan throne. But when it was done, she was relieved; one more hurdle over, one last enemy vanquished.

Hearing the crowd cheer for Alistair gave her a flicker of pride, coupled with guilt for the heavy burden she had laid upon his broad shoulders. But it was final, because she had said so in front of everyone, and true to her form, Anora recovered herself gracefully as befitted the queen of Ferelden, even if the looks she cast her future husband were dark indeed.

As her little troupe bundled up to trudge back to Redcliffe, she wondered if it would always feel this way, if she could ever shake the pall of loneliness that clouded her even as she was surrounded by all her companions. Alistair understood, she thought, glancing over at him as they walked, his expression grim, a determined set to his jaw. She avoided his eyes, unable to bear the hollowness in them, keeping her gaze on the road ahead, with the shadow of the archdemon looming over her thoughts as they came closer and closer and closer.

.

.

.

It had been seven days since that night in Denerim.

Sylvanna had been unaware that she had been counting them, but there it was – seven, she thought, when she found the witch inside her room, waiting for her as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if she had been expecting this moment all along.

"You. Why are you here?" Sylvanna demanded, her breath catching in her throat when she caught sight of her, tall and resplendent and composed, a dark shape outlined by the flames piled high in the fireplace behind her. "You – you left me when I needed your help!"

"You appear to have survived adequately on your own," the witch commented dryly.

"You didn't even say goodbye!" Sylvanna said reproachfully, the memory fresh in her mind, remembering the coldness of the bed as she had awakened from a spell-induced slumber. "You could have woken me, or left a note, or something."

"What could I say?" Morrigan asked wearily. "You would merely have protested, no doubt devising a way to make things more difficult than they otherwise were."

Sylvanna glared at her. They eyed each other off warily, neither giving any quarter.

"Why are you here?" Sylvanna asked grimly.

In her fantasies she had dreamed of the witch returning to her, contrite and remorseful. They would shout and throw insults at each other and make love until they were ill, avowing to start anew. She knew it was only a paltry dream, a foolish thing, and so when the witch returned she was not altogether surprised when she learned that the reason had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with Morrigan.

It was in that state of conscious dread that she listened to Morrigan's offer, weighing up lives in her mind as though she was measuring the weight of flour at a market. She questioned the witch until her voice was hoarse, one question leading to another, and another, until there was nothing more to know. And still she continued, in a voice she barely recognised as being her own, until there was only one thing left to say.

She had a terrible sensation of time trickling through her fingers, knowing that once this night was over, it would be decided. This had to be the end of all things. She thought it had ended before: firstly, when Morrigan had refused her love, and secondly, when the witch had slipped from her side. But this was different. The stakes here were much, much higher. They were sailing into unknown waters, and once they had lost sight of land, there would be no going back for either of them.

"You want me to let you rape Alistair," Sylvanna declared finally, a statement, not a question, as she raised her eyes to meet Morrigan's.

"Must you be so melodramatic?" the witch demanded, stalking angrily from one side of the room to another. "This ritual will not hurt the boy. Truly, he may even find the experience much to his liking…"

"Stop," Sylvanna pleaded. "Stop." Her voice was trembling, she realised, as she breathed out slowly, trying to gain mastery of her emotions. Her hands were clenched into tight fists, the knuckles white, and her palms ached where her fingernails had bitten into them.

"I warned you," Morrigan said calmly, watching the Warden with a tightly controlled ferocity. "Did I not?" She stalked towards Sylvanna, a predatory fluidity to her motions, the smooth curves of her hips rising and falling with every step. "I warned you what this foolishness may lead to. And despite all of this, you permitted this – this weakness to consume you."

Sylvanna backed away, suddenly feeling the cool touch of stone beneath her fingertips as she reached the wall. Morrigan crept up to her, trapping the shorter woman by placing her hands against the wall to either side of Sylvanna's shoulders. She leant in, their bodies touching with a rush of heat that caught Sylvanna unawares, a warmth coursing through her veins that she had no power left in her to deny.

"Do not allow your emotions to cloud your judgement," Morrigan warned, her voice sibilant, almost a hiss.

"I'm not," Sylvanna protested. Her heart was beating painfully in her chest, matched in rhythm to Morrigan's pulse that she could feel through the thin layers of their clothing. She looked up at Morrigan, seeing her pale, drawn face reflected in the witch's gaze. "Maker, how I wish-" she broke off, choking on her words. When she looked back at the witch, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I wish you had never asked me."

Morrigan's eyes widened suddenly, and in an instant she was thrown back against the opposite wall of the room, the smell of burning leather and flesh filling the air. The fabric of her robes was still burning, and the witch was screaming, hoarse cries that turned into a chant as she dispelled the flames from her, leaving only the blackened skin and burns covering her chest and neck. Her breath rattled painfully in her throat as she gasped for air, a look of bloody vengeance on her face.

_It should have killed her_, Sylvanna thought, her heart going cold. It would have, save for the amulet the witch was wearing – another of Sylvanna's gifts, ironically enough, plucked from the depths of the Deep Roads, that absorbed some of the blow.

Sylvanna gathered a jolt of energy, electrical current pulsing between her fingertips. Her eyes met Morrigan's across the room, a mutual understanding flowing between them. This was what she had been warned of. This was how it must end, the two of them, alone.

And yet Sylvanna hesitated for a fraction of a second, her body remembering a friend, a paramour (must she add yet another murdered woman to her list?) The witch had confessed to caring for her; was that all now a lie, too? Her spell faltered on her lips, and then returned, the room filling with an arcing blaze of electrical energy so bright that she had to look away.

When the lightning dissipated, there was nothing, just a heap of charred robes crumpled against the floor. Sylvanna ran to the window, her eyes searching the night sky, but there was a new moon and scarcely any light to speak of. She felt a hollowness growing inside her, barely aware of whether she was relieved that the witch had escaped, or angry that she had lived. She walked back to the robes that were left behind, probing them with the toe of her boot. There were a few dark feathers scattered around it, deep black and glossy, that did not match the larger feathers adorning the robe. She picked one up, twirling it between her fingertips, deep in thought.

"What in Maker's name is going on here?" Leliana demanded, bursting into the room. She had dressed hastily, Sylvanna noticed, tossing on a robe that did nothing but accentuate her curves.

"Morrigan," said Sylvanna, as if that explained everything. She licked her lips, realising that her mouth had gone dry. Leliana was staring askance at the scorch marks on the wall, and the crumpled pair of robes. The elven Warden had become pale, her hand rhythmically spinning the feather between her fingertips over and over again, vacant eyes staring at some point slightly past Leliana's head.

"Morrigan?" queried Leliana. "What happened? You're frightening me," she said nervously, taking Sylvanna's hand in her own to stop the repetitive motion.

Sylvanna stared down, seeing their fingertips linked together, and pulled away, not unkindly. "We have to find Alistair," she said, ignoring Leliana's desperate questions as she ran into the hallway.

A group of her companions had amassed, most in a state of half undress. "We heard screaming," Wynne began, but Sylvanna ran past her, rapping sharply on Alistair's door.

"Alistair," Sylvanna demanded, her fist pounding on the door. Her friends were staring at her, questions forming on their lips but she ignored them. The door was stuck, sealed from the inside by bars or perhaps secured by magic. She placed her hands on the old wood, sending a shockwave rippling through its fixtures. The castle around them trembled with the force of it as the door shattered inwards, Wynne stumbling to recover her footing.

"Sylvanna," Wynne said sharply. "What are you doing-"

"He's not here," Sylvanna said despairingly, staring around at the empty room. "When did you last see him?" she demanded, rounding on her companions.

Oghren shifted uncomfortably, the normally resilient dwarf perturbed by the expression on the Warden's face. "You were the last to see him, I think," he said, scratching the side of her nose nervously. "He went to talk with you and the Orlesian and then... wandered off."

"Where?" Sylvanna demanded, narrowing her eyes. The dwarf shrugged uncertainly, withering a little under the force of her glare.

"Not sure," he mumbled. "Maybe he went for a walk?"

"Sylvanna, what is going on?" Leliana pleaded.

"Alistair's in danger," Sylvanna said sharply. "I'll explain more as we go along." She turned on her heel, stalking towards the main floor of the castle without looking back to see if they were following.

"And if you see Morrigan," she added hotly, "kill her."

.

.

.

At Sylvanna's orders they split up into small groups. She and Leliana took the north-east quarter of the castle, Thetus close behind them, interrogating every stray servant they could find and avoiding the curious glances of the stationed militia who were still awake at this dire hour. Her actions could have been more discreet, Sylvanna thought; the rumours of how the Grey Warden Commander and her friends were hunting down a rogue maleficar on the eve of the march to Denerim was hardly something to inspire confidence from the troops. But there was no time for discretion, or for anything else.

"Damn her," Sylvanna muttered.

"Is it really so awful?" Leliana murmured wonderingly.

"Demon-god-baby-spawn?" Sylvanna laughed bitterly. "Maybe growing up to one day, I don't know, take over Ferelden and the rest of the Maker-forsaken world? I think 'awful' is an understatement."

"Perhaps she believed herself to be doing you a favour, saving your lives-"

Sylvanna rounded on her, grabbing Leliana's wrists tightly in her hands. "I trusted Morrigan. She lied to me. She knew this would happen from the start," she hissed, her face inches away from the bard's. "This is the only reason why she came along, why Flemeth saved us, why-" she broke off with a choke, releasing the bard. Leliana rubbed at her wrists uncomfortably, red marks forming on her skin where Sylvanna's fingers had held her.

Thetus barked, interrupting the two of them as he galloped on ahead. Sylvanna turned and ran after him, hiking her robes up to her knees for ease of movement.

They reached a dark alcove at the side of the castle, close to the servants' quarters. Thetus' attention was directed at a large shape slumped against the wall, his teeth bared and a low growl emitting from his throat. Sylvanna summoned a wisp, its light glowing eerily blue against the stone, and saw what her dog had already found.

"By the Maker," Leliana whispered.

Sylvanna didn't recognise the body, not at first. It was an elven woman, her chest split open like a ripe melon, ribs extruding from the flesh. There was very little blood, far less than would be expected from that kind of injury. The corpse was clothed in servant regalia, head sprawled to one side at an unnatural angle. Sylvanna turned her eyes to its face, twisted in its final moments of agony, a pale blue kerchief half-hiding a pair of scars where the ears should have been, wounds that she remembered healing all too well.

"I never even knew her name," she murmured. Bending down, she closed the vacant eyes as Leliana said a prayer under her breath. "Morrigan must have healed herself," she mused as she straightened up, wiping her hands on her robe. "A woman scorned... she must be furious. When we find her, she will be dangerous," Sylvanna warned.

"I am ready," Leliana said grimly.

Thetus was sniffing near the corpse, his ears pricked for any sound. Suddenly he barked again, darting off in another direction. The two women followed him, hoping with little conviction that they wouldn't be led to another body.

Her dog brought them to the chapel, a tiny structure nestled in the footholds of the castle. It was dark, the altar candles and sconces both extinguished. In her haste to find Morrigan, Sylvanna had forgotten to bring her staff. She now regretted that oversight. Not that it offered any protection, but its weight was comforting, and she missed the feeling of the warm silverite against her fingers.

"We're too late," Sylvanna said despairingly.

In the glow from her wisp they could see a crumpled figure huddled at the foot of the altar, the light playing eerily across his bare back. Thetus ran forward, faster than either of the two women, whining plaintively as he nosed at the cropped head of blonde hair that Sylvanna knew so well. She approached slowly, afraid of what she might find. At least there didn't seem to be blood anywhere... but on the floor of the chapel she could see scuff marks, hastily drawn lines of charcoal that seemed to evoke something sinister.

"Alistair," Leliana cried out, kneeling beside him and turning the Grey Warden onto his back with difficulty. She reached for a pulse, but a hand lashed out, grabbing her wrist and flipping the bard over painfully. Leliana landed hard against the steps of the altar, a gasp of surprise torn from her throat.

"Leliana?" Alistair asked disbelieving, instinctively reaching for a dagger that wasn't there. "Sorry," he said sheepishly, blinking the sleep from his eyes, "I thought you were darkspawn, or, or – hey, where are my clothes?" he asked suddenly, blushing furiously as he sought to cover his exposed flesh. Sylvanna tossed them towards him from the pile where they had been randomly strewn, as if someone had been working in a hurry.

"What's going on?" Alistair demanded, half-muffled as he pulled a tunic over his head. The two women were staring at him uneasily and Thetus' ears were flicked back, the dog's eyes conveying a frightening depth of sadness.

"Did you come here after our conversation with Riordan?" Sylvanna asked, sitting down on the floor. Her legs could hardly support her any more, and her hands were shaking. She gripped them together tightly, willing them to stop.

"Yes," Alistair said. "I just thought – I wanted to make peace, you know. Considering. What could happen." The face of Andraste stared down at them, high upon the wall, her hands outstretched in a benediction. Sylvanna swallowed, nodding. She understood.

"I was praying, and I must have fallen asleep," Alistair continued. "Which, you know, is kind of weird since it's really cold in here and the floor is kind of hard and uncomfortable and by Andraste's flaming sword, can you tell me what is going on? I mean, I suddenly wake up without any clothes and find you staring at me as if I've grown a second head, it makes a man wonder, it really does-"

"Morrigan," Sylvanna interrupted, fear knotting up in her stomach, "did you see her?"

"Morrigan?" he asked disbelieving. "In here? In a chapel? No, I didn't-" he stopped suddenly, a strange expression on his face, before he dismissed it with a shake of his head.

"Did you dream of her?" Sylvanna demanded, her voice cracking. From the look on his face, she had her answer.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Alistair asked hotly, a flush of red spreading across his cheeks. "I mean – it was a dream, right? Please tell me that was just a dream. It – it didn't feel real. I mean, Morrigan? Why would she – none of this makes any sense!"

"I should have killed her," Sylvanna murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

"Do you wish to continue searching for her?" Leliana asked quietly.

Sylvanna considered it, her hand going to the ring strung around her neck. She had never learned how to activate its power, never thought she would need to learn – more the fool she – and shook her head. "No – call off the search. She has what she wanted and will have fled. There are endless places where a shapeshifter could hide, and we can't waste any more time on her."

Leliana nodded, getting to her feet. "I will alert the others." She placed a hand on Alistair's shoulder, giving him a look that was filled with endless sympathy and then left the chapel, her graceful footsteps hardly making any sound at all.

"You owe me an explanation," Alistair said accusingly, turning to Sylvanna. She nodded wearily as she laced her fingers tightly together. Under the watchful gaze of Andraste, she told him everything; every last detail about how her former lover and maleficar had used his body in her attempt to conceive a child with the soul of an untainted Old God.

"And then we found you," she finished, not looking up at him. He placed his head in his hands, rubbing at his temples as if to erase the memory of the witch.

"Did it – did she hurt you?" Sylvanna asked.

"I... don't remember," he said carefully, his face deliberately blank. The expression in his eyes made her shiver. She had recognised the same look in herself; self-loathing and horror and a sick sense of shame and everything else she had meant to protect him from.

"This is my fault," she said miserably. "Why didn't I see this?"

Alistair looked up at her slowly. "You were in love," he said softly.

"I'm sorry," she told him, over and over and over, painfully aware of the inadequacy of her words. "I am so, so sorry."

He reached over, awkwardly taking her hand within his.

"So am I."


	15. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As the story draws to a close, this is one of your last chances to offer predictions as to what will happen next! I'm terribly curious to know :-)
> 
> I'm still not happy with the pacing of this chapter, but hopefully you can forgive my impatience in publishing it :-) With thanks to ilumiari for the beta!

The Warden and her allies ran through the wreckage of Fort Drakon, Leliana leading the way as she knew its hallways best. The fort was scattered with the remains of both soldiers and darkspawn alike, the two frighteningly similar in death as they were not in life.

"Wait," Sylvanna called, spotting a glimpse of gold shining under all the smears of blood and grime. She took a step closer to one of the bodies, kicking its head so that its helmet rolled away backwards, revealing a face twisted in its last moments of agony. She stared at it, memorising its last visage of pain and suffering.

In her fantasies she had imagined that each of her six captors would survive, placed within her grasp by royal decree or by happy accident of fate. She would take them to a dungeon very much like the fort's own. Perhaps she would even make them watch one another as she flayed the flesh from their bones, concentrating on one man at a time. She would burn their skin or freeze their extremities until the tissue blackened and died, until they barely resembled human beings. Perhaps she would make them beg for mercy as she brought them back from the brink of death, keeping their minds and senses intact as she slowly destroyed their bodies piece by piece. A man could be easily kept alive in such a way for weeks, even months.

In her fantasies, she had shared the experience with Morrigan, permitting the witch to wreak her own brand of gruelling vengeance on the unfortunate guardsmen.

"Maker spit on you," she said savagely to the sergeant's corpse. How dare he die now, under some common darkspawn blade. How dare he.

She barely noticed as Leliana approached her, the bard taking her hand and squeezing it gently. Sylvanna sighed. Now, after all she had endured, she would not even be granted this justice.

"Sorry," Sylvanna muttered, casting one last, longing look back at the corpse. "Let's move on."

.

.

.

The winds were blisteringly cold at the top of Fort Drakon, but Sylvanna was scarcely able to feel them. She watched from a distance, healing energy surging from her fingertips as Alistair and Zevran danced around the Archdemon like wasps cornering an angry bear. Beside her, Leliana stood notching arrow after arrow with clean, repetitive motions, her face a mask of grim determination. Sylvanna had summoned the mages to her aid, many of them people she had once known, long ago, and the air crackled with magical energy, so thick that she could taste it, feel it through her toes as it made her hair stand on end.

All at once, Alistair swung on top of the beast, dealing what she thought must be a fatal blow, its body writhing in agony as it sought to toss the Grey Warden from his perch. Alistair tumbled down, finally, a spurt of blood erupting as he withdrew his sword, the great wings of the Archdemon stirring as it struggled to rise.

Sylvanna dropped her staff and ran towards them, grabbing a sword that must have been left by one of the darkspawn. Its grip was slick with blood, feeling foreign and heavy in her untrained hands. As she ran, she saw a flicker at the corner of her vision, a patch of movement against the darkened sky.

It was some sort of bird. A raven, perhaps, she considered in the split-second between one moment and the next. _Maggots take you, Morrigan,_ she thought viciously, and hefted the sword in her hands. She swung it upwards and straight across, the beast's head collapsing to the ground beside her, the stone trembling with the impact. She caught her breath, barely, hefting the sword up and up and then sharply down with one last, final motion.

Finally, there was only the roaring of her blood, and a wave of intense heat and light that threatened to knock her off course. The Archdemon screamed in her mind, the sound penetrating her bones and blocking out any other thought or motion. She clung onto the sword desperately, barely conscious of how she was staying upright, her blood burning in her veins. She could hear a song in the screaming, somehow; something beautiful rising up from the ashes of destruction that had been wreaked all around them.

And then, it was over.

.

.

.

She expected to die.

She wanted to die; wanted to make that sacrifice if it meant that the Archdemon was truly gone.

But somehow she had found herself bowing in front of Alistair, (King Alistair, she reminded herself), poured into some stuffy dress that Leliana had found for her, a million eyes upon her. She wondered if they knew her dirty little secret, that she had been the one who let a maleficar run loose and steal an Old God's soul, if hers was the name they would know to curse when their houses were burning and Urthemiel returned in all its magnificent glory.

"Nothing," she said, when Alistair asked if she wished for a boon. "I want nothing," she repeated, her eyes downcast.

"There must be something I can do for you," he prodded gently. When she stubbornly shook her head, he sighed, and went on to announce to the populace that the Circle of Magi would no longer be under templar control.

Oh, how Greagoir was going to hate her for that one.

.

.

.

"So this is it."

Alistair's voice echoed dully around the large study. It was cold, with not even the heat of the fire serving to warm up the bare stone of the room. He stood dressed in ceremonial armour, appearing uncomfortable with the trappings of his new station and looking for all the world like a lost little boy, despite the weathered markings that war had etched permanently across his face.

"Yes," Sylvanna agreed.

She was struck suddenly by the memory of their first meeting in the ruins of Ostagar. She had thought, even then, of how Alistair resembled King Cailan, quickly dismissing the idea as due to her poor assessment of human facial features. He didn't so much resemble Cailan now as he did his father, she mused, or at least those depictions of Maric that still survived, tucked away in obscure corners of the palace.

"You're really going after her?" Alistair asked in disbelief. He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing the length of the room as Sylvanna's eyes tracked his movements. "Can't I convince you otherwise? I need you here," he said plaintively. "Ferelden needs you. Someone has to rebuild the Grey Wardens…"

Sylvanna shook her head as she stepped around to him, placing her hand upon his arm. "Perhaps when I return," she said hesitantly, averting her eyes as she spoke. Alistair frowned at her, his expression grim. They both knew that her return would be a statistical improbability at best, even if (especially if) she found Morrigan.

Alistair was reminded of a story he had heard long ago, a cautionary tale told by the Chantry. A Tevinter magister had been travelling the countryside, escorted by a handful of bodyguards. Their party had been set upon by bandits, and while the magister had been lucky to escape with his life, his escorts had not been so fortunate. Wounded and aggrieved, the magister fled to the nearest farmstead, demanding food and shelter. The farmer accommodated him as best he could, but when the magister also solicited the attentions of the farmer's young daughter, heated words were exchanged.

Furious at the farmer's impudence, the magister reached for a spell to strike down the foolish peasant. But as he began to chant, the farmer struck first, calling upon a wall of fire to consume the presumptuous magister. It seemed that the lowly farmer was a mage of some power, and injured as the magister was, the discovery took him by surprise.

The ensuing fight between the two was long and difficult. The magister was old and powerful, but his wounds still pained him, whilst the farmer was fighting for his home and family. At last the magister perished, but not before uttering one final curse – the farmer's land would forever be bare, his crops withering before they could be harvested, his livestock sickening and dying before his very eyes. And even now, the soil on that land was blackened and barren, with not even a blade of grass marring its desolate surface.

Alistair had never really understood the moral to the story (don't anger your hosts? Try not to get your hired help killed?) but this he knew: duels between mages never, ever ended well.

"At least don't go alone," Alistair pleaded. "I'm sure some of the others will want to help you – Leliana, perhaps, or Zevran-"

"No," Sylvanna interrupted him, her mouth set in an obstinate line. "No – I won't risk anyone to her again – I can't. Don't ask me to do that."

"I could make it an order," Alistair said grimly. "Your phylactery is still in Denerim – others could be sent after you-"

Sylvanna laughed softly, shaking her head. "You wouldn't," she said. "You're a good king, Alistair. And you need all the help you can get to rebuild. You wouldn't send able-bodied men after me for a-"

_For a suicide mission,_ her mind filled in the blanks.

Alistair stared at her helplessly and ran a hand through his hair, muttering something about damned stubborn elves under his breath.

Sylvanna sighed. She never thought it would be so difficult, never thought that a templar, of all things, (former templar, anyway), could become a comrade, even a friend. She never thought that she would grow to miss his terrible jokes, his even more terrible cooking, or his uncanny ability to put holes into every one of his socks. She never thought that she would miss him.

"Rule well, Your Majesty," she said, executing as graceful a curtsey as she could manage. "I have the utmost faith in you."

Alistair laughed nervously, still unused to the notion that he now had titles, a list of them as long as his arm, in fact. "Thank you. I just – I hope you're right."

Sylvanna looked at him, a pensive expression crossing her face. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much that lay unsaid between them. But perhaps he already knew what she was thinking. She had always been easy to read, or so Nadine had told her; _'like an open book, my dear'_.

"Maker watch over you," he said to her as she drifted out of his life, her hand hovering over the door handle. She turned to him for the last time, her eyes filled with tenderness as she gazed upon him: the bastard son and reluctant king, the monarch whose throne had been claimed with violent force. The bloodstains in the throne room had barely dried when he had been crowned, a grim reminder of how close they had come to being consumed by civil war.

She inclined her head to him, a melancholy smile playing upon her lips.

"May He watch over us all."


	16. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The title of this chapter is a shout-out to Shadow of Light's very excellent novel-length fic [The Hunt,](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5651953/1/Dragon_Age_The_Hunt) which follows fem!Cousland, Dog and Zevran as they track down an absconded Alistair. This fic made me first consider writing for this fandom and has the best Zevran characterisation that I've read so far, plus enthralling action scenes and fully realised OCs. And despite the premise of the story, the hetness is fairly low key if that's not your thing.
> 
> Thank you all very much for your speculations :-) This is the penultimate chapter, so I hope the ending that we're heading towards doesn't disappoint. Thank you so much for reading and commenting throughout; it has been a pleasure.

She lost a month, an entire, precious month in the Circle tower, feverishly pouring through old books and begging as much lyrium from Irving as she dared to carry out her experiments.

A light burned in her study night and day. She had taken over Nadine's quarters, even though half the Circle was empty and there had been no shortage of choice. She had always approved of Nadine's sense of décor and it only seemed fitting, to come full circle.

Thetus enjoyed being fussed over by the remaining young apprentices, even deigning to allow them to sit on his back for rides. The children's squeals of laughter chased away some of the horrors that had lingered, despite the thorough scrubbing and scouring of the tower. He was growing fat, Sylvanna noticed with displeasure, on scraps that all the apprentices fed to him when they thought she wasn't looking.

She wished that Wynne had come back here. It would have assuaged her guilt, somewhat, made her feel as though she wasn't turning her back on the Circle (though what the Circle had ever done for her to earn her guilt, it was hard to say). But the senior enchanter had headed north, coupled oddly with Shale in a search for the golem's lost mortality. Sylvanna had expected some sort of reprimand, some harsh words of censure from Wynne when she had found out that Morrigan had betrayed them... but the senior enchanter had only been silent, and somehow, that had made it even worse.

"The Blight is over," Irving told her gently one evening, catching Sylvanna fallen asleep over her work. "What is it that troubles you so?"

Sylvanna rubbed her burning eyes, fatigued despite her brief moment of sleep. In her hand, the dark surface of a ring gleamed in the firelight, before she slipped it onto a chain and strung it back around her neck. "I've found her," she said distantly, her sight unfocused. "That's why I'm leaving tomorrow."

"You could do much good in the Circle," Irving encouraged her, knowing as he did so that it was a futile gesture.

Sylvanna laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "No," she said hollowly, turning away from him. "I really couldn't."

And true to her word, she was gone in the morning, taking her mabari with her.

She would never see Irving again.

.

.

.

She stopped just outside Orzammar for supplies, her hood pulled low over her face as she quietly haggled with the surfacer dwarves. Thetus paced restlessly at her side, his paw prints leaving muddy tracks in the snow, and she placed a hand soothingly against his neck. She felt the mabari tense under her fingertips and she looked up, coming face to face with the last person she had expected to see in this place.

"Zev," Sylvanna began cautiously, straightening. "I thought you were last seen on a boat to Antiva."

The assassin shrugged apologetically. He looked well, she thought, not without some envy, as though he hadn't been roughing it in the wilderness as she and her mabari had been. How he managed to keep his hair so clean and free from caked-on blood had always been a mystery to Leliana and herself.

He slipped Thetus a strip of dried meat and her dog gulped it down happily, nosing around the assassin's pouches for more. He laughed indulgently and waved him away until the mabari reluctantly conceded, though not without casting a longing look over the elf's many secret pockets where any number of treats could be hidden.

Zevran gestured for them to proceed to somewhere more private and Sylvanna followed, Thetus padding along beside them. Away from the traders and general onlookers, she fixed him with an icy glare and returned to the topic of his unexpected presence.

"Why are you here?"

Zevran looked hurt, his hand going to his heart as though she had injured him deeply. "Is this how the Hero of Ferelden greets her fellow comrade? You wound me to the core, my dear."

"I told you," Sylvanna said through gritted teeth, "I don't want any help."

"Your ability to self-flagellate astounds me. I made an oath to you, long ago, that I would be your man without reservation-"

"Then I release you from said oath," Sylvanna said tersely. She looked up at the sky, noting the darkening clouds and the angle of the sun. She hadn't planned on spending the night in Orzammar, her presence likely to cause more questions than she needed. By nightfall, she hoped to be well on her way through the Frostback Mountains, with only Thetus by her side. Trust Zevran to find her when she least wished to be found.

"You shouldn't be here," Sylvanna insisted. "You should be somewhere warm – sipping something fruity in a glass, surrounded by half a dozen nubile young women and men, or whatever it is you prefer," she gestured vaguely.

Zevran sighed, a look of thoughtful regret on his face, as if he too was questioning his own sanity for chasing the Grey Warden through the frost and snow, when he could be far more comfortably situated elsewhere. Defeating the archdemon had done wonders for his notoriety in Denerim, and many of her citizens had been more than eager to show their gratitude in… tangible ways. "Yet here I am," he said, smiling wryly.

"Here you are."

"Do not do this to yourself," Zevran begged her, unexpectedly solemn. She stared at him as though he had become a stranger to her, but he pressed on, taking a step forward. "Leave Morrigan be. Don't throw your life away for her sake."

"Do you think so little of my abilities?"

Zevran chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "Nothing of the sort, my friend. Merely that I can recognise a longing for death when I see it." He observed her, a penetrating glance that left nothing hidden and she bridled under his gaze. He accepted the glare he was receiving and continued anyway, Thetus' worried eyes passing from mistress to friend.

"I was the same as you, once," Zevran confessed. "I came to Ferelden seeking my death. I was fortunate to find mercy. But you, my dear, may not be so lucky."

"I don't want to die. I want her to die. And the child." Saying it out loud made Sylvanna go cold inside, her lips feeling numb, and not just from the frost that had settled upon the air. She'd had time to come to terms with it though, knowing that this would be her fate ever since she had found Alistair huddled in the chapel in Redcliffe Castle: one more sacrifice lost on the altar of Morrigan's ambition. That moment had changed everything, eclipsing even the fear of the archdemon in her mind. Suddenly, Morrigan had become the greater evil.

"You cannot have fooled yourself so easily, my dear. And if I can see this within you, then so will Morrigan. Surely she will have you at a disadvantage," Zevran cautioned, his eyes narrowed in a frown.

"I have to do this, Zev," Sylvanna said quietly, turning away from him.

"If you are indeed committed to this, then let me come with you!" He grabbed her wrist, forcing her to look at him. She stared at him coldly, an intractable glint in her eyes. Beneath the leather of his gloves, Zevran could feel the icy crackle of mana gathering across the back of her hand. He released her, his fingers tingling inside his gloves with a numbness that had nothing to do with the frosty mountain air.

"No," Sylvanna shook her head. "I can't let anyone else intervene – not after what happened with Alistair. I can't." She backed away from him with Thetus in between them, the dog's large, soulful eyes glancing with confusion between his mistress and back to the Antivan. She beckoned slightly and Thetus was at her side in an instant, gazing up at Zevran with an expression that seemed to convey an apology of sorts.

"You have proven your loyalty, Zev, and I care for you," Sylvanna said cautiously. "I don't want to see you hurt. But I can't promise what may happen... if you try to follow me."

The threat hung in the air, unspoken. As to whether she was capable of following through with it… well. A woman in love was a dangerous thing, Zevran knew; deaf to reasoning and all the solicitous arguments in the world. And though she might protest against it, Sylvanna was in love, as miserably as any person ever was. What she truly desired from this fool's errand was anyone's guess. But Zevran had never been one to intrude where he was not wanted.

The former Crow stared at her, for a moment at a loss as to what to say. At last he nodded, his eyes shadowed with an air of detachment that Sylvanna understood all too well. Unlike herself, Zevran had always been the master of his own emotions. "I... understand," Zevran said, and perhaps he truly did. "I wish you well... my friend."

Sylvanna pulled her hood back down so that her face was once again obscured by shadow, her hand on the back of Thetus' neck. "A girl could not have asked for a truer companion, Zev," she said quietly as they turned away, severing the last ties that bound her to her past.

"Goodbye."

.

.

.

When she activated the ring, the dreams began again.

At first they were only fragments, scraps of music, a memory of dark shapes flitting overhead. She would wake, cold and uneasy, a name half-remembered on the tip of her tongue or the taste of dragon's blood coating the back of her mouth.

By day, they trudged slowly through the Frostback Mountains, avoiding the main roads and thoroughfares that even now were starting to fill again with more traders than refugees. Hardly anyone would recognise her, of course, as the Hero of Ferelden, but she found herself with no desire to interact with people or to field their curious glances.

The ring burned against her chest, and she wondered if Morrigan could feel it too - if Sylvanna's attempts at making the ring a one-way device were unsuccessful. The witch must regret giving it to her, she mused.

Her body had begun to ache in strange places. At first she put it down to merely sleeping rough, or even as side effects of the taint, but as they journeyed the feeling became worse and worse. Sometimes it was so painful that she could barely sleep, tossing and turning throughout the night and in the morning stumbling through the world as though in a daze. Her dog was forced to guide her steps at times, his warm, dependable presence the only thing that kept her moving on some mornings.

She chased the wretched woman for the better part of a year, over the mountains, through the Dales and finally into the Arbor Wilds. She should have known that this is where they would end up, that the witch would eventually bring them back into a wilderness much like the one where she had grown up in to raise her child. The witch was slowing her pace though, each day bringing Sylvanna just a little bit closer to her target, and a little bit closer to redemption.

.

.

.

It rained the day the child was born.

Sylvanna woke from her dreams with a cry of pain. She doubled over, hands clutching at her abdomen, her body wracked by uncontrollable spasms. Fumbling at her neck, on her third try she managed to snap the chain she wore and threw it as far away from her as she could, the necklace and ring tumbling down into the scrubs some distance away. She fell back on the wet ground, the contractions subsiding, the pain receding from her mind. She looked up, raindrops splashing on her cheeks as she stared into the large brown eyes of her dog, a warm tongue lathing her face as Thetus whined at her in concern.

"She really did it," she said dully. "Morrigan is bringing an Old God back into the world," she told Thetus, who only looked at her sadly, nudging her face with his nose.

It took her longer than she thought possible to stand up, wearily, trying to get her bearings. The ground was slippery beneath her and she was chilled to the bone, her robes soaking wet. Unconsciously she put a hand to her belly, still trembling from the effect of the phantom pains. She almost felt sorry for Morrigan. If that was only the transmission she received from the ring, how much more horrible must it be in person...

No; she couldn't feel sorry for the witch. She was here for one reason and one reason alone – to kill the mother and her demonspawn child.

"Come on, boy," she said, bending down to pack up the remains of their shelter. Briefly, she thought about searching for the ring, but it could have gone anywhere – she had been rather careless with the execution of the throw – and besides, now that the child was about to be born, her dreams were probably going to get much, much worse.

.

.

.

It was in her dreams that she first heard the song.

Sometimes it would pound in her veins, like a war cry, and sometimes it would wind itself tenderly around her mind like an ardent lover. It grew dim when she sought to find its source, and rose with a deafening crescendo when she tried to flee.

Inside her dreams, there was a house.

She approached the house cautiously, seeing smoke puffing away from the tiny chimney. It was still light outside, the sun beginning to set in a glorious palette of pinks and reds. She was alone, and unarmed. In a window of the house, a light flickered, as if it were a hand beckoning her onwards.

Inside the house, there was a cradle.

It was carved beautifully from wood, an heirloom piece used for generations. Scores of deer and hares frolicked around its base, its frame swaying gently from side to side with a soft, rhythmic sound.

Inside the cradle, there was a child.

Swaddled in blankets, it blinked its yellow eyes as Sylvanna approached, the irises slitted like a reptile. A thin, forked tongue flicked out at her, the mouth yawning open to reveal three neat rows of teeth, the face widening as though it was grinning.

Sylvanna raised her hands, magic coalescing and pulsing between her fingertips. She called upon it, bent it to her will, focusing her power into one single blow-

And the child screamed.

The sound was so intense that Sylvanna fell to her knees at once, the spell slipping from her as she clasped her hands to her ears. Blood was running down her face, trickling through her fingertips in a warm cascade and still the sound was there, inside her mind and there was nothing she could do to make it stop.

Inside the screaming, she heard the song.

And it was vast and terrible, consuming her in a single moment, blotting out all thought or reason. It called to the taint within her body, making her blood sing with an ancient knowledge that she was too frail to contain. It burned her from within, light pouring out of her as her body filled with a tune that was older than the mountains.

Outside, a dog barked once, and then was silent.

.

.

.

When Sylvanna woke, Thetus was gone.

She called for him, louder and longer than she should have dared. The forest glittered around her, late afternoon sun spilling down in a soft haze, filtered by the trees that stretched on for ever and ever up above her. She stumbled through it blindly, her heart sick with worry, until she came across the clearing.

It was familiar, and yet not. The trees parted in front of her, dense underbrush clearing to a grassy plateau, the land gracefully sloping upwards to a slight rise. A small stone cottage perched on top of the hill, like something out of a fairytale, quaint puffs of smoke floating upwards from the chimney. Carefully tended beds of canavaris and deathweed dotted its surroundings. It looked like it had been inhabited for years, creeping tendrils of ivy lovingly embracing its cold stone walls.

Perhaps, once she killed the child, her dog would return to her.

She had to believe in that.

She had to.

She had used up most of her magic trying to find Thetus, and so she waited, nervous and fretting for her power to return. She had dreamed of coming here, to this sleepy little house in the middle of the woods. In all her waking hours she had plotted and schemed, devising a thousand paths to murder, a thousand ways in which she could watch those golden eyes become still and lifeless at last.

But in her heart, she knew it was not enough. Nothing could change the fact that Morrigan had betrayed her, that she had betrayed them all. Nothing would bring back the lives Morrigan had taken, leading Sylvanna on a merry chase across Ferelden and beyond. She had found bodies, or parts of them strewn in her wake, some left mockingly as reminders of what the witch was capable of. The servant at Redcliffe Castle had only been the beginning; even children who crossed the witch's path had not been spared.

Sylvanna layered as many protections as she could bear upon herself, dweomers to ward off hostile magic and potions to enhance her own spell-casting. She had always been terrible at protection charms, however, and it had driven her to distraction in the tower. She had hated being inept at anything, hated having to struggle with what should have been a simple incantation when all other forms of magic came to her with ease.

Her preparations took far less time than she had anticipated. Left with nothing else to do but wait, she tried to curb the knot of dread that was forming in her stomach. She knew Morrigan, or thought she did. She knew her modus operandi, her signature spells, the way the witch's eyes lit up as she drained a person's life away...

(There were other things she knew - other, more intimate details, like the way Morrigan preened when she thought no one was looking, how she carefully folded her robes as she retired to bed to avoid creasing the fabric in the morning. She knew how Morrigan spoke her name indulgently, '_Sylvanna'_, the pursed bow of her lips encircling the word and breathing it as though in prayer, the gleam in her eyes before a fight, the firm, yielding warmth of her body as she unfolded around her.)

All this she knew of the witch, and more.

Perhaps that knowledge would suffice.

And perhaps it would not.

It was dark when Sylvanna finally moved, unsheathing her staff from her back. The moon was bulbous and swollen, the light shining down eerily upon the house. Something squeaked and ran from her approach, a twig snapping crisply beneath her foot.

The front door was open as she reached the cottage, warm light spilling out from it in abundance. As she neared it, she could hear singing, the faint refrain of a lullaby. It called to her softly, beckoning her into the warmth and the light. She took another step, and then another, crossing over the portal and coming face to face with the woman who had been haunting her for the past nine months, whose laughter echoed in her sleep and whose touch her body remembered as if it had been only yesterday when they had last met.

"Oh, Sylvanna," Morrigan sighed, a trace of lingering remorse in her voice.

"You should not have come."


	17. The Witch's House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This final installment is dedicated to my wife, who asked me not to choose the Ultimate Sacrifice ending.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! This is the longest thing I've ever written by far, and it's been great getting all the feedback along the way. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing this.

The cottage was pleasantly warm, a welcome contrast to the cold outside. A crackling fire dominated the room, casting shadows against the walls that spun and danced. To one corner, a spiral staircase stretched upwards and away, small items of furniture dotting the rest of the room, the layout as familiar as if it were Sylvanna's own cottage.

A gentle creaking noise drew her attention, coming from a large rocking chair next to the fire. Morrigan was seated, watching her. There was no trace of the fireball Sylvanna had launched at her that fateful night, so long ago. The elf servant's blood had seen to that, Sylvanna assumed, healing Morrigan to perfect health, with not even a scar or patch of darkened skin to mark the injury.

In Morrigan's arms, there was a bundle swaddled in cloth. Sylvanna scarcely had to look further to know what it contained.

"Yet here you are," Morrigan continued, "the conquering hero, come to vanquish the unspeakable evil."

Sylvanna raised her staff, its intricately sculpted head pointing towards the witch and her child. "I never wished it to end like this," she protested. The magic coiled like snakes at the back of her mind, slithering up her arm and into her fingertips.

"Enough." As Morrigan spoke the word, Sylvanna's fingers went numb and the staff slipped from her grasp. The weapon tumbled with a clatter onto the stone floor as she cried out in pain. "Did you imagine me unprepared?" Morrigan chided, shaking her head. "Weakened, from the rigours of child birth? I am... disappointed in you," she said, as she effortlessly gestured towards the warden.

Sylvanna tumbled backwards with a dull smack as her body impacted against the opposite wall, the breath knocked from her lungs. She reached for a spell, but found nothing. The magic was there, she could feel it, but there was resistance, like an invisible wall.

"How are you doing this?" She could not feel bonds of magic entrapping her own, nor see sigils laid down that would have such an effect. Her eyes darted to the staff that had been flung away from her, just out of reach. Somehow, she doubted if it would even function as intended, had she the opportunity to take it.

"I?" Morrigan queried, gently mocking. "I am not doing anything. 'Twas all her desire," she said, gesturing to the tiny bundle in her arms. "She brought you to this place, led you here on the whispers of dreams. She has been... preparing you for this."

"Preparing me?" Sylvanna demanded, not taking her eyes off the bundle. "Preparing me how?"

Morrigan sighed, a trace of her old self showing as she shot Sylvanna an irritable look. "Can you not feel it?"

Sylvanna stared blankly. There was a deep hunger in the pit of her stomach, a yearning, and her body ached with a heaviness both new and bewildering.

Ignoring the sensation, she threw herself to the side, reaching out for her staff. Where her hand should have closed upon hard metal she felt only air, her fingers grasping uselessly around nothing as her nails scraped against the grit of the stone floor. Perplexed, she blinked, her eyes watering from the heat of the fire. When she glanced again at the floor, her staff was nowhere to be seen.

Tentatively, Sylvanna reached for her magic, one hand flicking open with her fingers outstretched. She watched in fascination as the air above her palm shimmered, the light distorting and pooling around her fingers in iridescent colours.

But still, there was no magic.

Morrigan watched all of this with amusement, her lips pursed in what could have been a smile. "Desist, Sylvanna," she murmured. "Your efforts will avail you not."

Sylvanna drew in a sharp breath, eyes narrowed as she observed the witch and her child. Morrigan seemed completely at ease, so much so that she even continued with the gentle rocking motion of her chair. The steady creak of the wood set a slow beat that echoed throughout the small room, like the rhythm of a heart. The witch had scarcely laid a finger upon her. Considering how their last meeting had ended, Sylvanna had been expecting anger, some kind of furious resistance. Instead, Morrigan was the perfect image of composure itself, almost... serene.

In hindsight, that should have been her first warning.

"Why did she... it... bring me here?" Sylvanna asked.

Morrigan shrugged, a trace of a smile in her voice. "Perhaps she wishes to punish you. 'Twas your blade that slew her previous incarnation, after all. But look," she murmured, beckoning Sylvanna to come nearer, "she is not so terrible, is she?"

It was waking up, Sylvanna realised with horror as the blankets in Morrigan's arms stirred.

"She has your eyes," Morrigan said, carefully parting the blankets to reveal the... thing's face.

Sylvanna knew very little of babies. Oh, there were births at the tower, from time to time, but inevitably those were attended by grim-faced Chantry priests who absconded with the newborns as soon as they were able. In their wake, they left behind the ashen-faced and broken mothers to wander the halls, listening in vain for the cries of a child that was never theirs to keep.

This baby, however, was unlike any she had ever seen, hardly behaving as she believed a baby ought. It was so quiet, the large, luminous eyes tracking her every movement, so self-aware. And it was beautiful, far more so than any infant had any right to be. She... it... had large, brilliantly blue eyes, regarding Sylvanna calmly in the warm glow of the fire. There were delicately pointed ears peeking out from under the blanket, the sweet, rounded face crowned by a perfect elven nose.

"This is impossible," Sylvanna whispered. "How is this happening?" she asked, dragging her eyes away from the child back to the witch.

"She shows you only what you wish to see." Morrigan curled her arm around the baby, who was still observing Sylvanna with its cool, disquieting gaze.

Hardly knowing what she was doing, Sylvanna rose from the floor. She took a step closer to the child, and then another. It turned towards her as she approached, a chubby arm reaching out from within the blankets.

Sylvanna jerked backwards, breath catching in her throat. She could scarcely take her eyes off the child, its gaze seeming to penetrate her to her core.

"It will be easier, if you do not resist," Morrigan suggested. "She will make you love her, in the end."

"She must be destroyed."

"Come, now," Morrigan chided with a click of her tongue. "She is but a child. Shall you add infanticide to your repertoire of heroic endeavours?"

Sylvanna shook her head. Morrigan was wrong, she was... wrong, but Sylvanna found it hard to think, with the large, terrible eyes watching her every move. It was quiet, so quiet in the little cottage, with only the rhythmic creaking of the rocking chair and the occasional crackling from the fire breaking the silence. Sylvanna could hear the rise and fall of her own breath, the beating of her heart sounding unnaturally loud within the walls of her chest.

"Here," Morrigan offered, holding the child out towards her. Sylvanna stared at it blankly, before reaching for it, hands trembling as they closed around the tiny, deceptively helpless body. She sank into the chair opposite Morrigan and cradled its smooth, warm head against her breast, small fists grasping instinctively at the fabric of her robes.

Her body ached, dully, and glancing into the child's face her heart skipped a beat, a pain in her chest burning so fiercely that it was almost hard to breathe. A tiny hand stretched out towards her, and the pale pink mouth opened, the eyes screwing up tightly in its round face.

And then the child began to cry.

Sylvanna had heard babies crying before: annoying, raucous noises that scraped at the fringes of her thoughts and set her teeth on edge. This sound was... different, almost musical, the high and wavering notes precisely pitched, woven together like strands of a song. It pulled at her, demanding and incessant, drawing on half-conscious understanding and deep, instinctual memory.

"Hush," Sylvanna begged, rocking the child in her arms. She held it closer to her, its fingers clutching insistently at the edge of her cloak. She looked up at Morrigan, eyes pleading for help but the witch only stared at her coldly and shook her head.

"Please be quiet," Sylvanna implored. The child continued to cry, the sound enveloping her in all its complexities, penetrating and relentless. A terrible hunger gnawed at the pit of her belly, like a beast clawing to get out. She suddenly had a moment of perfect understanding, a clarity of vision and purpose that chilled her to her core. Numbly, her fingers clumsy and slow, she began to unfasten the clasps of her robe. When she hesitated, the crying intensified to an almost feverish peak, and she was powerless to resist its call.

She parted the fabric, sliding her robes down to her shoulders. The night air was cool on her neck and she shivered, goosebumps forming on her skin. Tiny, perfect hands reached for her as she bent her breast to the child's mouth. She was rewarded with a feeling of warmth and blessed, velvet silence, the gnawing hunger in her belly receding into a complete sense of satiation. The child's eyes closed sleepily as it nursed, Sylvanna bringing her hand up tenderly to caress its fragile, delicate skull.

Morrigan smiled, meeting Sylvanna's eyes over the head of the child. "Is this not what you desired?" she asked, her voice almost a purr.

Sylvanna avoided her gaze, watching the hypnotic dance of the fire, the flames teasing her somehow - power there that she could not obtain or control.

"I-"

She could feel herself slipping, lulled by the warm breath of the child against her skin, the tenderness she could feel blooming in a heart she thought she had hardened long ago. Her body was exactly where it wanted to be – safe and warm and… needed.

"I don't know," she admitted.

Finished with her meal, the child yawned, blinking sleepily, long lashes fluttering as its eyes struggled to stay open. Sylvanna reached down, gently wiping at the child's mouth with a handkerchief and readjusting her robes so that she was covered once more.

"Why don't you put her to bed," Morrigan suggested, watching her closely from across the room.

Sylvanna nodded, not looking up as she gathered the baby in her arms, the infant clinging to her as if it were her own child. She walked slowly to the cradle, lowering the child with infinite care into the blankets, adjusting the sheets over its tiny body. As she started to rise, the child looked up at her, a smile widening on its chubby face. Sylvanna froze in place, not even daring to breathe until the child yawned again, curling over on its side to settle into the blankets, its large, appraising eyes closing at last in sleep.

She stood over the cradle for a long time, staring down at the tiny form within, noting the rise and fall of its breath. Her body ached, remembering the slight weight resting against her chest, yearning to be that near to the child again. She barely heard Morrigan as the witch rose to her feet, walking up behind Sylvanna, her breath warm against the back of the elf's neck. She did not resist when the witch slid her arms around her waist, drawing her close, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

"Welcome home," Morrigan intoned, turning Sylvanna to face her. Morrigan gently swept a stray tendril of hair behind Sylvanna's ear and slowly, ever so slowly caressed the side of her face, her long fingers tracing the thin line of scars that marked the elf from cheek to lip. Sylvanna sighed, leaning into the touch, and clasped Morrigan's hand with her own, tilting her head up. Morrigan smiled, a hint of satisfaction gleaming in the depths of her eyes. When their lips met, it was with such gentleness and grace that it hurt, the fragile senses of touch and taste dissolving all former thought or feeling. Sylvanna closed her eyes and let herself drown in the sensation, falling further with every moment.

And she was home.


End file.
